


Hey diddle diddle

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Second Chances [3]
Category: MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Biblical References, Child Neglect, Con Artists, Hurt/Comfort, Orphans, Philosophical Dilemmas, Tall Tales, Trans Male Character, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: 1962. Three months can seem like forever, to an impatient ten year old.It's more than long enough for Jack Dalton to decide he's going to try life as a runaway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't figured on telling this story, but nobody's ever going to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Jack's childhood if I don't. Heigh-ho.

“Mac, are you paying any attention?”

“No,” he says, not bothering to look up from his book (he’s convinced their Sunday school teacher that “A Canticle for Leibowitz” is a book about religion. Probably because it was easier than answering his questions.) “Should I have?” 

Mike rolls her eyes at him, gestures at the empty classroom. “Mrs Dahlman is home with the flu and Miss Eudora says that the first sunny day of spring is too nice an occasion to keep us in, so everybody’s going home early. Except you and Jack, apparently.”

“Oh. Uh, well, I’m pretty comfortable here, and I can’t exactly move.” He gestures at the chunky youngster, fast asleep on his shoulder. “Jack’s always so sleepy- you know how early they have to get up, to come here all the way from Wisconsin? In time for the first service, too.”

“So, that’s a no on helping me with my new orange crate car?”

“I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it! But not right now. You were going to have to wait an hour anyway.”

“I know. I’m just impatient. Then if you’re not going to get up, how about telling me about Jack? You know I’m always curious.”

“Is ‘read my book while you go be curious somewhere else’ maybe an option?”

“Nah. If I annoy you enough, maybe you’ll come fix up my crate just to get rid of me quicker.”

MacGyver sighs, shoves a bookmark in the text. It’ll keep for next Sunday. 

“Well, if you want one story the way he told me…”

***************

_The wild Texas plains. Herds of cattle, thundering over grass._

_And a keen-eyed, hard-riding, rambunctious figure roping a steer from horseback-_

***************

“Mac, I don’t believe a word of this! C’mon, he’s ten!”

“Look, you only went and asked. And even if it isn’t, he sure tells a great story,” MacGyver says. “Besides, you know what really makes me believe it? That he said he was wearing that peaked cap while doing it- I mean, anybody making this up would have given himself a cowboy hat. But he told me all this stuff about how it kept slipping down, and how worried he was it would blow away on the wind.”

“Yes and no,” Jack says sleepily. “I made it up about the cap, it’s still too big for me to wear while riding. But I did lasso that cow, honest.”

“....uh,” MacGyver says. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Was, for a bit.” He straightens up, stretches. “Did you tell her about my Uncle Charlie yet? Bet you’d have loved my Uncle Charlie, Mike. He’s great. Too bad about his getting nabbed for card-counting, I always said Vegas was gonna be his downfall.”

(MacGyver notes the quiet unhappiness under Jack’s cheerful demeanour, and decides that prudence is the better part of kindliness.)

“Let me see if I have this genealogy straight,” Mike says, pulling out her ever-ready notebook. “You’ve got your dad, Jack Senior, the one who served in Korea as an airforce pilot.”

“Right. With the greatest flight jacket ever, I wear it all the time. Have to, you guys keep it so cold up here.”

“Uh huh. And your mom, Francine, who disappeared never to be seen again- which side was Uncle Charlie on?”

“Dad’s side. Mom could have been anything, Charlie said, the marriage was sort of a fling that went wrong.”

“So- where does your Uncle Nelson fit it? The one who’s raising you in Wisconsin?”

“Oh, he’s not really a relation at all. Just Charlie’s husband from years back. Bad luck for me that somebody looked it up and found that out.”

“But- now I’m confused. Is she a girl who likes using a boy’s name, like I do?”

“Uncle Charlie was a girl,” Jack explains, patiently. “But he’s not now. I mean, if you can’t call yourself a guy after two decades of being a drunk, cigar-smoking, black-hat cowboy, when can you?”

“You can do all those things without being a guy, as well,” Mike puts in. 

“Yeah, but he isn’t,” Jack says with a shrug. “Anyway, for a while he didn’t even know I existed, and then when he did find out, it took ages for him to clean up his act long enough for the authorities to let him adopt me. So we had the best two years ever, rollicking around Texas and scamming people, and then Charlie got himself thrown in the slammer and I got sent to live with Uncle Nelson. Which, believe me, I was not happy about. So I’m running away next week.”

He’s extremely casual about it. The other two are almost as taken aback by that as the statement itself.

“But- who’s going to take care of you?” (MacGyver’s question. What if’s and if only’s have been on his mind a lot, since last December.)

“Nobody. I will. I mean, I’ve spent my whole childhood getting kicked around between foster families and having to live out of a suitcase anyway, it can’t be much worse making it on my own. Uncle Charlie taught me a couple tricks.”

“That’s brave of you,” Mike says, with a distinct note of respect in her voice. 

“I don’t think I could do that, ever,” MacGyver says. (Not with his mom and a sister to look after.)

“Well, I bet your mom doesn’t spend all day telling you how fat you are and making you memorise Bible passages, does she? Last week I got fed up with it and started giving him the Song of Solomon from memory,” Jack says smugly. “Got through the whole first chapter before he took me out for a whuppin’, he was that stunned. Say- could I ask one of you for help?” He kicks his rucksack with his foot. “I’ve got all my stuff in here under the books, always do just on the off-chance. Can you stash me somewhere for a day or two, until I can get a bus south?”

“Oooh. Real-life ethics problem here,” Mike says with fascination. “Sure we will. Mac, what about your basement workshop? Nobody would look for him there.”

It’s on the tip of Mac’s tongue to point out that actively helping a runaway is probably all kinds of illegal- but if he says no, then Mike will probably put him somewhere less safe. Or somewhere harder to find. 

“Yeah. That’d work.”

“I owe you one,” Jack says gratefully. “Let’s make tracks, I wanna be long gone by the time Uncle Nelson shows up.”

There’s so much trust in his eyes. 

Mac’s honestly not sure what he ought to do.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ooh!”

Nobody has ever sounded that excited about his workshop. It’s almost embarassing. 

“It’s just somewhere I can build stuff and mess around with my chemistry set. Mom won’t let me do it upstairs, in case I put off the customers.”

“But this is awesome!” Jack says, poking at the buzz saw. “Bubbling test tubes, crystal sets- man, I’ve got no idea what any of this is but it looks fab. You’re gonna be some scientist.”

“Or forest ranger, maybe. Or a racecar driver- there’s all kinds of stuff I want to be, I don’t know how I’ll ever pick.” Mac rummages through a drawer, pulls out a couple of padlocks. “Nobody can get in or out of here when I don’t want them to, I was hanging out with Mr Stuart one day and he helped me make these. You can’t open them with just a hairpin, Allison’s tried.” 

“Great. Only could you get me some lunch first, before locking us in?”

“Not sure I can without somebody noticing. Mike?”

“No problem,” Mike says. “I can go home and fix up some pastrami sandwiches. Don’t do anything exciting while I’m gone, huh?”

She charges out the door. Mac skips up the stairs two at a time, to lock the door leading to the coffee shop. Pauses. 

“Actually, I’d probably better go have a word with my sis, before somebody comes to ask what I’m up to. I’ll come around the back way, okay? Maybe in an hour or so.”

“Sounds good,” Jack says, catching the offered lock. “I’ll probably have a nap. Be nice to have one without getting told off for it.”

How, Mac wonders, can he make even the most normal things sound crazy?

**********

He doesn’t go find Allison, but sits down in one of the coffee shop booths. Nobody will be hanging around here today, since they’re closed Sundays. Good place to have a quiet think. 

Asking anybody for advice would be tantamount to giving Jack away; he’s no good at lying, and would be bound to let something obvious slip. So that’s out. 

And he likes Jack, he really does. The two of them have been swapping notes in Sunday school for three months now, hilarious little observances that have turned into a highlight of his week. He knows the whole story about Jack’s beloved peaked cap, and the time his Uncle Charlie nearly killed the two of them ramming down a highway in a station wagon full of howler monkeys. Jack knows about his sorta-crush on Ellen Stuart, and his plans to get a double major in chemistry and physics, when he goes to college. He’s just really easy to talk to, somehow. 

(Jack says that’s because he’s been practicing his fast talking. That doesn’t really make sense, when most of their conversations have been on paper.)

If only he’d gone home and left Mike, instead. Then it would have been somebody else’s problem- aw, but that would have been worse, he really doesn’t want Jack to go back to Texas. There hasn’t been a lot else to make him laugh lately. And Jack’s probably exaggerating the whole thing, anyway. Like he does. 

What to do, what to do…

which is when an idea pops into his head, so nice and clear that he wonders why it didn’t occur to him before. If Jack wants to leave because he’s having problems with his uncle, then obviously the solution is to go have a word with Uncle Nelson. He’s gotta be a good guy at heart. After all, he took Jack in. 

MacGyver swings back to the church, where the special extended prayer service is still going (Mission City has an epically long one, which is why it’s worth anybody driving in from Wisconsin in the first place.) It seems like forever before the thing wraps up, but the minute it does, he chases down Nelson Davies. 

Mr Davies doesn’t look a bit like Jack, naturally. Tall and thin as a lathe, very dignified with his white suit and red carnation. What people would call a fine upstanding citizen. 

“Sir? Could I have a word? About Jack.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll have to go fetch him first.” Briefly, but politely. “My ward has a remarkable tendency for getting into mischief when not under proper supervision.”

“That’s just what I meant, he’s not there. He’s- somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I-” _ulp!_ “I can’t tell you that, I really can’t.”

“Are you always this impertinent? Where is he?”

This is not going well. “He’s running away to Texas,” MacGyver says, trying to bite back his exasperation. That won’t help Jack any. “He’s homesick, and I think a little lonely, and scared. If you could just have a word with him, tell him that you...that of course you love him, I think it’d make so much difference.”

“Officer!”

Officer Olson, so fresh to the force that his badge is still shiny new. He tips his cap at Mac. “Anything I can do for you gentlemen?”

“This young man,” Mr Davies says, gesturing with his thumb, “has just told me that my ward Dalton is attempting to run away. I’ve been expecting that for some time now. Kindly inform him that I have the right to charge him with harbouring a runaway, if he carries on deliberately concealing the whereabouts of the child.”

“Now, hang on a second,” Olson says. “Aren’t we moving a little fast here?”

“With a habitual juvenile delinquent? I’ve deemed it wiser to take precautions. Except, apparently, for trusting too generously to the church’s oversight.”

“You’d better read your law a little more closely, then,” Olson says, very dry. “Within Minnesota jurisdiction, you can file all the charges you like, but we automatically dismiss them if the child’s found within forty-eight hours…so for practical purposes, young MacGyver here has that long to make sure Dalton reappears. It’s your responsibility to come back and pick him up, mind.”

“Then I’ll file that charge right now,” Mr Davies says, not batting an eyelid. “No point wasting time.”

This’ll be all over Mission City in hours. Upset his mom, maybe hurt the shop- “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know where he is! I just know where he’s going to be later on!”

“Go on,” Olson encourages him, gently. 

At least the police officer’s on his side. “He said he was gonna take the ten o’clock bus to Duluth, because he thought it’d throw you off the trail if he went north instead of south. I was supposed to see him off with some sandwiches.”

“Of course you were. Gluttonous, slothful child- I do believe he’s attempting to personify every deadly sin before he even turns of age.”

“There we are, then,” Olson says in relief. “Look, MacGyver’s mother is quite a personage in this town, and it’s not worth your while antagonising her. Why don’t we put off the felony charges for now, and see if Dalton’s at the bus stop tonight? If he is, I’ll be there and take him in custody, and no hard feelings.”

“Sir. You are a frivolous discredit to your profession.”

“But an officer nevertheless,” Olson says, with a hint of umbrage for the first time. “As you’d do well to remember. But since MacGyver seems to irk you so...why don’t I take him for a little chat and put the fear of god into him, as it were? I trust you’ll count that a reasonable use of a Sunday afternoon.”

“It seems,” Mr Davies says, through set teeth, “that I haven’t very much choice.”

Stalks back to his car, takes out a copy of the Bible and pointedly begins reading it. Mac has a feeling he’ll be there, frozen in that exact same pose, until ten to ten. 

Officer Olson winks at him. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Can he really file charges?” MacGyver asks, anxiously, as they head down the street. 

“Oh, he can try. But you’ve come clean with a police officer about what you know, and there’s no evidence you’re concealing him. So the charge would have to be aiding a runaway, and there’s an interesting little wrinkle in the law about that. Technically speaking, you can only be charged with that one if you’re over eighteen- so even if Dalton never shows up tonight, there’ll be nothing to put on my sheet. And so much for our Mr Davies.”

“Phew. Glad you know your stuff.”

“It’s my job,” Olson says, affably. “That being said- I certainly hope that Dalton is there. Kids shouldn’t be on the streets.”

“Oh, yeah. I just wish that he liked it better at home...though I guess I can see why he doesn’t. I mean, being brought up by that guy must be pretty tough on him, right?”

“Agreed. Of course, if there was some evidence of abuse, things would be different. Would you know if there’s been any?”

Mac frets. He’s pretty sure the answer’s no, at least nothing chargeable. Boring a kid to death and stopping him going anywhere but church and not letting him have desserts isn’t illegal, even if it all adds up to a life that’ll make Jack miserable for years. “Maybe you’d better ask him that, I wouldn’t know.”

“All right.” They’re passing the coffee shop now. “No need for you to worry about this any more, all right? Go and enjoy the rest of your Sunday, I’ll make sure everything works out for your friend.”

“I will! Thanks.”

MacGyver goes inside, and spends a few minutes stunned with himself. He’s never done so much lying in his _life_. To a police officer, no less! 

And he’s not nearly as bad at it as he thought he’d be. Apparently, Mr Davies is only too right; Jack Dalton really is an awful influence. He thinks about all that time he’s spent in Sunday school, scribbling replies to jokes instead of paying attention, and feels decidedly guilty. 

Not least because a real friend would be telling Jack to get out of town, now. He’s not going to do that, when it’ll mean never seeing him again. 

No: his plan’s gonna be a whole lot stupider, painful and more reckless, but if it works, Jack’ll be sticking around for quite a while yet... 


	3. Chapter 3

Mmm. This really is the life. 

Mac’s blue corduroy sofa is just about the nicest thing he’s ever slept on, wide and spacious and faintly smelling of liquorice. More than enough room for him to curl up with the old rucksack, holding everything that he holds dear- a cap, and the manual for a Douglas DC-3, and three of his Uncle Charlie’s best red bandanas. A couple of emergency candy bars, and a spare hundred dollars sewn into the lining. Enough to get him across the country, easy. 

Mike’s idea of pastrami sandwiches runs very purist- pastrami piled on rye bread- but she’s brought a whole cooler’s worth, with coke and half of a thickly-frosted chocolate cake. It’s weird leaving off eating when there’s still food around, but he can’t manage another bite and there’s still plenty left. (One of the wax-paper parcels goes into his rucksack.)

She’s been busily interrogating him about Texas. Hard to keep up with her relentless curiosity, but he does his best.

“And so just where are you going first, when you get there?”

“Hey, maybe that’s a little personal. I wouldn’t want anybody coming after me, you know.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone. Reporters musn’t ever reveal their sources,” Mike says. “And I’m going to be a journalist, so you can trust me on that.”

“Sometimes journalists have a hard time getting people to trust them,” he points out. 

“I never have.”

“But you live in this cute small town where everybody loves talking about themselves, of course that was easy. Not everybody’s like that,” Jack retorts, licking one last dollop of fudge off his spoon. “I’ll tell you this much, though, it’ll be the Gulf Coast. Down by the water-”

There’s an inquisitive knock on the door, and a sort of hiccup jolts through his nervous system, before he realises that Uncle Nelson would be pretty unlikely to be that polite about it. 

Still. Just to be on the safe side, he locks himself in the bathroom while Mike answers the door. 

“Oh, hey. Jack, it’s okay! It’s just Mac!”

“You sure?” 

“Unless he’s brought along the invisible man, yeah, I’m pretty sure. Gee, but you are paranoid,” Mike says, laughing a little as he slips out.

“Apparently with good reason,” Mac says, not a little anxious. “Uh- he got hold of me outside the church, and I had to tell one lie after another, and basically- he’s really crazy, isn’t he? Tried to get Officer Olson to arrest me!”

“Caught you, huh? I just bet you went straight to him and spilled your guts, didn’t you?”

“...yeah,” Mac says, very quiet. “But I did a better job lying to him, honest. Long and short of it is, I’m convinced.”

He so, so, shouldn’t be forgiving MacGyver this easily, but he is. “How soon can I get out of here?”

“Well, I was thinking- I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I blow up my mom’s basement?”

“...what?” Mike says, just in time to beat Jack to the punch. 

“If I whipped up some kinda nasty chemical spill, or pretended I did anyway, and I told her we’d have to seal the whole place off- then you could just stay down here. I mean, I’d get the dressing-down of my life, but we can’t exactly move away or anything, so she’d sort of have to go along with it. And I could sneak down furniture and stuff from my room so it’d be more homely. And-”

“Mac, that’s really sweet,” Jack interrupts. “That is probably the sweetest thing anybody’s ever offered to do for me, but no, this is an awful idea. I mean, how would you like being locked in a basement for eight years?”

“I dunno, I might have a lot of fun. Especially if I had somebody to smuggle me books.”

Mike rolls her eyes. “Tonight at eleven. In which Angus MacGyver gets to show off how he’s even more insane than a juvvie delinquent.”

“I never said that!” Even if it’s true. 

“Call it a reporter’s gut instinct. The same one that’s telling me that you don’t actually want to go out on your own just yet,” she adds. “That you’d really like the chance to just be a kid for a few years, and be able to have a chocolate cake without wondering if this is the last one you’ll see for six months.”

“Well, sure I would. But how’s that gonna happen?”

“I’ll get my parents to adopt you,” Mike offers, with downright brazen enthusiasm. “They’re nice people, and they’re bored enough to be talking about having another kid- and I’d way rather have you around than some dope baby I’d have to help change the diapers. And they’ve got a bit more cash than Mac’s mom- I mean, she’s got him and Allison and the shop, she’s got more than enough to worry about.”

“You don’t even know me that well…”

“Nah, but Mac seems to think you’re top banana, and I always trusted his judgement. And seriously, you’re the most interesting person ever to wander into Mission City. If you’re living in my house, I’ll have lots of fun practicing my interview technique.”

“You gonna bring along cake like that every time?”

“Done.”

His day is rapidly slipping into a madness that makes Uncle Charlie look sane. “I was kidding! We’re talking law here, nobody can take me away from Uncle Nelson.”

“I’ve got an idea about that,” Mike says with gusto. “We make it really violent! Beat you up, drag you to the police station, and tell Officer Olson about your awful, awful Uncle Nelson and what he did to you. I make sure my parents are around and you give ‘em a sob story, and we’re home free. I bet you’re great at sob stories, aren’t you?”

“And you said I’m supposed to be the crazy one?” Mac ventures, into the dead silence. 

That’s what he says; but there’s a very hopeful look in his eyes. An expression that’s practically yelling, _oh, please, say that you’ll be sticking around?_

A little like love, maybe; and Jack hasn’t had nearly enough of that in his life. That’s worth a lot. That’s worth anything. 

“Uh...you’re not planning to break any bones, are you?”

*************

Nelson Davies is a God-fearing man. 

This, though any reason for belief seems increasingly perfunctory; that only makes him cleave to his faith more firmly. Reason isn’t everything. Or indeed anything, in these stark times. 

Twenty years ago, he was a God-fearing man also, but richly blessed then. Rejoicing in the possession of two beauteous creations, equally prized in his sight. A well-watered cattle ranch in the Texas panhandle, and a dark-haired, snub-nosed girl just level with his shoulder, when she stood against him in stockinged feet. Not even very beautiful, by worldly judgement; but he’d already learned to discount that. 

A wife and a home: and he’d fought to protect them, through half those patriotic ‘40s. On more than one sort of battlefield, too. Where other soldiers might lightly lay aside their virtue, he had remained true. 

So sure in his self-control, that he had voluntarily stayed on, allowing other desperate souls to rotate home first. He had not succumbed. 

His wife had. 

“You don’t understand, what it’s been like,” she’d told him. “To keep the ranch going, with no reliable help, going for weeks at a time without seeing another soul...it’s not that I don’t love you, you know. Or this place. I was the one who changed.”

In her slick, pitiful masculine attire, cut down to fit her feeble size. 

“I think it was always coming. These years I’ve had, living as a man, they’ve been the best in my life. Can you take me as I am, Nelson? Not in public, I know, but- here at home? Just the two of us, alone?”

He had not. Most assuredly, he had not. 

The ranch had sold quickly, assets divided even faster. Strange parody of marriage, still: for he had no desire to look at another woman, only her. No question of divorce. She could never marry again, encumbered by her lies; and he never would. 

He had taken his share north, to a place whose bitter harshness comported better with his soul, and comforted himself with his God. Thus on, and so on to death, he had thought; until the boy had arrived, squawking stain against the accustomed silence. He does not believe a word of the wild tale about a half-brother, and a marriage made on the eve of combat (that story, just their own- must she have twisted the truth so?) No, Jack is unmistakably her scion, and possessed with that same devilish fire. 

So she’d given her womanliness to another. A small sin, atop of all the others: but the one that haunts him most at night. (That devilish fire that had tempted him so, once...)

But there had been his clear duty; and he had done his best to raise the child in righteousness. Expecting no gratitude, receiving none. Anxious at heart, to save him from his mother’s sure damnation. (What purer love could there be?)

He walks quickly down the street, towards the bus stop. With that certainty he’s craved for so long, burning in his heart after long abeyance. For his actions now are correct, approved beyond all doubt. 

He is a God-fearing man. 

God will surely bless them. 

*************

“C’mon, Jack, not much longer now. Then you can sit down.” MacGyver hikes the rucksack over his shoulder, quite carefully (his friend had been reluctant to relinquish it).

“Mac, it really hurts.” The whimper is faint, but hurts Mike to the quick (she and her parents are waiting in the car, just a few feet from the bus stop, and she’s starting to wonder if she and Mac did too good a job on the poor kid.) “Thanks. I don’t think I could have made it here without you.”

“Look, stick around just a couple days. Let me get the doctor to check you out, or something. You could stay in Mike’s treehouse.”

“Don’t think I could even get into a treehouse, in this state. Besides- the longer I stay, the more chance that Uncle Nelson or somebody will catch up with me.” Dalton drops onto the bench, half-sobbing with pain. MacGyver holds him upright, full of concern. 

“But you’re black and blue everywhere...”

By the light of the street lamp, Dalton’s bruises are clear to see. He winces as the rain pounds down on them. 

“Doesn’t the child have a coat, for this weather?” Mike’s mother asks her. 

“I think he left it in his uncle’s car. Didn’t want to go back and get it.”

“Hmm.”

The splish-splosh of Nelson Davies’ footsteps, with his white suit muddied by the rain, ought to be funny; but nobody there much feels like laughing. 

“So you are here, then. Dalton, come with me.”

Just the way he’d order a dog to heel. Dalton’s looking at MacGyver with something close to heartbreak. “You squealed on me! How could you?”

“I didn’t know you were hurt this bad! I’ll- I’ll call the police on you, or something,” MacGyver says wildly to Davies. “If you’d beat up a guy like this in a bar or something, they’d arrest you for sure!”

Nelson Davies purses thin lips, in the shape of a smile. “Corporal punishment is perfectly permissible, by the books. Especially when, as in this instance, the injuries are entirely superficial.”

 _Uh-oh,_ Mike thinks. Maybe they should have asked a lawyer for advice first. 

Dalton’s come to the same conclusion. “But- you mean...”

“That if you’re hoping to tell the police officer that I’ve been beating you beyond reason, it won’t work. They have ways of dating bruises- be sure your sins will find you out, Dalton. They’ll know-”

“So I got myself beaten up for nothing,” Jack mutters. “Ow. Damn it, I shoulda let Mac break a bone.”

“Don’t swear. Get up,” Davies says, reaching in to poke Dalton with his umbrella. 

MacGyver swats it away, stands up. “I- I don’t want to fight you, sir, but I will if I have to.”

“You’re a child.”

“Yeah, but at least I can stand up, and that’s more than he can!”

“I will too!” Mike Forrester shouts, bursting out of the car. She just can’t take this any more. 

(So much for journalistic objectivity.)

Mr Davies, exasperated beyond endurance, reaches in to whack her with the umbrella- and she ducks and turns, so that a simple rap against her shoulder becomes a hard-hitting blow to the throat. Winded, she faints into the street, and feels the rapidly developing bruise with a certain satisfaction. 

At that point it all gets a bit confused. 

Her parents jump out of the car, naturally, her mother grabbing her out of harm’s way. Mac’s using the rucksack as a sort of improvised bludgeon, swinging it back and forth to keep Mr Davies at arm’s length. Who hooks it out of the way, so that the bag goes flying through the air (with a corresponding cry of horror from Jack)- 

only to be caught by her dad. Mike almost cheers, before remembering that she’s supposed to look really hurt. 

“Mike was right. I wouldn’t treat an animal the way you’ve behaved towards this child!”

“He’s a perpetual liar! Bent on straying from righteousness!”

“And just how desperate was he to do that,” her dad asks, “if he was willing to hurt himself that badly, just to escape you? Those are real bruises.”

There’s a moment when it looks like a serious scuffle might break out; so it’s just as well that Officer Olson makes his belated arrival at this point. Whistling. 

“Evening! Anyone wanting any help here? Touch of homespun advice, perhaps?”

“I’d like to put in a charge against this man for assaulting my daughter,” her dad says immediately. 

Mike helpfully moans, on cue. 

“I,” Mr Davies says icily, “am simply trying to take my runaway child home. Officer, I trust you’ll assist me with that.”

“Oh. Hmm. Interesting point of the law,” Olson says. “I looked it up this afternoon. The penalty for aiding a runaway is a month in prison, and a five hundred dollar fine. A lot lower than for kidnapping.”

“I will gladly pay and serve that,” her dad says, “to get this child into safety.”

“And I’ll take him home,” her mom says, hugging Jack (carefully) and pulling him into the car. Mr Davies tries to intercept, but somehow the officer gets in the way. 

Mike has never, ever been so proud of her parents. 

“This is a crime! Officer, stop this!” Davies roars. 

“There’s this thing about small towns,” Olson says to MacGyver. “Some crimes, like moonshine, have the funniest way of never being reported. While others- do you know, sir, you’re yelling at a public thoroughfare during nighttime hours. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you down to the station.”

“You-”

“Now, sir. Don’t make me use force.”

And then, it's blessedly silent, except for the dripping rain. They all pile into the car- Jack, by unspoken agreement, safe in the middle seat.

"I didn't believe Mike at all," he says. "Thought that this was bound to end up with me getting arrested, or something."

"It should have," Mac says, in puzzlement. "We didn't have law on our side at all. Officer Olson bent it for us."

"And a good thing too," her mother says fiercely.

"But- it's not right," he says, looking rather traumatized. Poor Mac, Mike thinks. His first dose of reality, finding out that not all wrongs can be corrected by due force of law. (She's read lots of accounts of journalistic repression in places where that is perfectly legal.)

"But what happens if Uncle Nelson tries to get me back?" Jack persists. "I mean, he's bound to try. Just for the look of the thing."

“Then we’ll have to think up something else- Mike, I don’t think you’d better speak for a few weeks. We’ll agree to drop the lawsuit about my daughter almost losing her voice for good, if he’ll stop bothering us, that should work out.”

“Aw.” That’ll be a really hard thing to do, but it’s only fair that she make a sacrifice. Poor Jack sure has; he’s still wincing. 

“Some quiet around the house for the first time in I don’t know how long,” her mother says, with a laugh. “Jack, that’d be a blessing in itself. And we'll have time to get to know you.”

“So- wait, I’m not going to Texas after all? I thought we were just doing this to get him off my tail?”

“Jack, why would you want to do that?” Mac asks. “When there’s people here who want to look after you?”

“Really?” 

“Yes,” her mom promises. Simple as that. 

Jack frowns, clearly mistrustful. But thinking about it. “As long as I can take off whenever I like...I guess I’ll stay for a while. Till summer, anyway, you make nice chocolate cake.”

“It comes from the bakery, actually.”

“Well. Them, then.”

“Glad to hear it. Sunday school would be so boring without you,” Mac says. 

Mike glances at him curiously; there’s a cute, wobbly little tone to his voice. She’s itching to ask what that’s about. 

Just as soon as she’s allowed to ask questions again, that is...


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Uncle Charlie,_

_Things are looking up! I've gotten away from Uncle Nelson, finally, and it only took me three months. (He sure kept an eagle eye on me.) But I'm living on Easy Street now. Hit the jackpot, so to speak- no, seriously, I sweet-talked a couple into unofficially agreeing to look after me. Yours truly is now care of David and Ruth Forrester, Mission City, Minnesota. I dunno what Minnesota's like yet, but it sure can't be worse than Wisconsin._

_It's mostly happening because the lady of the house is off her head, mind; apparently she's had one too many cosy chats with her sewing circle about what's wrong with her life, and had decided that what she really needed to cheer up is another baby. To go with her eleven-year old daughter. Despite the fact that she's got a crummy heart and would probably be a total invalid if she went ahead with another pregnancy. I didn't have to listen at doors or anything to find that out, it's scary how chatty she is about herself- everybody in the whole town is, I've noticed. Suckers. You’d clean up._

_I think Ruth is just plumb bored. (Dad's a travelling salesman and is away from home a lot. Doing the boring legitimate racket, sadly, nothing exciting.) But gushing over me makes her happy as a clam, and dad thinks I'm a hero for saving her life, and Mike (sorta my new stepsister, I guess? I dunno) is the tomboy sort. Wants to be Cary Grant's Girl Friday when she grows up. She’s just glad that there's another kid in the house to be fussed over._

_And brother, but can I take a lot of fussin'. So I'm a way better outlet for Ruth’s maternal instinct then any baby would be, because I can talk her ear off all day about how much I appreciate her, and her good cooking, and her dopey knitted blankets- and honestly, I'm not even playing up to it that much. I have my own room here, carpeting and everything, and they bought me a record player and new clothes and no end of junk. It's great. It'll sorta be a shame to leave it all behind, once you're out._

_Don’t worry, I miss the excitement like anything. Only source of that at present is that Uncle Nelson's still hanging around the place, giving me the creeps- wait, I'm telling you this in all the wrong order. Lemme back up and start at the beginning. See, the only place he would take me was church, which didn't seem very promising but I kept my head. Looked for an opportunity, just like you taught me...._

_***_

_...so long story short, he's knuckled under, isn't going to the police or anything about me, but he keeps coming to church every Sunday anyway- I guess, maybe, he figures that after doing it for years it'd be weirder if he quit going. Of course the Forresters let me off services, though I insist on going to Sunday school._

_And why is a hot-blooded Dalton going to Sunday school, you ask? Well, mostly because of this kid Mac- I lied earlier, he's the other exciting thing in Mission City. You just never know what he's going to do next...._

“And I’d be out with him right now,” Jack says aloud, watching a lazy white cloud wander across the sky. “If he wasn’t off with his friends.”

The move means a whole new group of kids to get to know (only business as usual). Mike’s amazingly good to him, if often thoughtless- from hints that Mac’s dropped, he’s getting the idea that he isn’t the only one who finds just being in her general vicinity sorta hazardous. Most of the girls are fine specimens, at that. The Yates twins can’t stop cooing over him, and shy Ellen Stuart’s given him a keyring with “Mission City” worked into the strap. 

The guys are a bit trickier. Mac’s great, of course, and they have a lot of fun talking about dynamos and stuff, when they’re alone. Only they’re not usually alone: Mac spends most of his free time running around with Neil and Jesse and Chuck. All of whom are polite enough to tolerate him tagging along, but have made it clear that’s what he’s doing. They’ve all got a year on him (and rather more than a year’s growth) and clearly think he’s just a little kid. 

Which in some ways, he has to admit he is. He’s as hopelessly lost with the minutiae of hockey greats or marbles, as they would be hawking theatrical tickets or scrounging up a free dinner in Houston. But he’ll have the same problem trying to make friends with anybody his age, and will look like a slow-witted dope to boot. At least if he’s with the older kids, he’ll have a ready-made excuse for playing dumb class clown; it’s a tactic that’s worked pretty well for him before. 

(And he does want Mac around to protect him from any bullies who’ll crop up. That’s bound to happen.)

_...for the kicker, I’ve talked Mac into helping me cram before school starts. Michael’s had a word with the school and they’ll let me take classes with the eleven-year olds, if I can pass some tests at the end of August. I guess I’ll find out how far a worldly education goes, huh?_

_Not really what I expected to be doing with my summer, but it does beat living with Uncle Nelson, so there’s that. And the Forresters are lapping up my aw-shucks, let’s-give-it-the-old-college-try attitude with a spoon. I guess they didn’t expect me to necessarily amount to much, so they were happily surprised. It’ll be great to live down to expectations, later; but as you say about first impressions, I only get one chance to screw ‘em up. Which means I’d better wrap this up and start hitting the books._

_Good luck with the license plates. Pour out a contraband whiskey for me, and all that._

_See you when I do,_

_Jack_

He does, in all honesty, try to get started on the history book (it’s a subject he has a better chance of struggling through alone than, say, maths). Gets about half a chapter in before surrendering. There’s a ticklish wind playing through the window, and this squishy feather pillow, and a good smell of roasting meatloaf going through the house. Lulling him into a snooze again- he’s been sleeping so hard since he moved in, catching up on what feels like years worth of interrupted nights. 

He doesn’t need to think about who he has to butter up next, or whose blanket he’ll have to steal to keep warm, or whether he’ll need to pawn something to eat properly tonight. It’s so weirdly peaceful. 

“I promise I won’t get used to this, Uncle Charlie,” Jack murmurs. “Be nice while it lasts, though…”


	5. Chapter 5

His sister can tease all she likes about how long it'll take him to try coffee; but MacGyver's perfectly happy sticking to hot chocolate. Especially when it's made by his mom. 

"So," she asks, adding a last dollop of whipped cream to the cup. "Who is this Jack Dalton that you've been talking about so much?"

Mac can't quite hide his grin; as presiding matron of the Chrysanthemum Cafe, his mother considers gossip-distribution as much her job as the coffee brewing. The real surprise is that she's waited a whole two weeks to ask. 

"Oh, the Forresters' new kid? He's an orphan from Texas." Jack doesn't really want everybody to know about the mom who abandoned him, so he and Mike have promised to keep that quiet for now. As Mike's pointed out, it isn't much of a lie considering that she dumped him as a baby. "He was living with his uncle, but Mr Davies was so hard on him that he was going to run away, only the Forresters offered to take him instead. I thought that was pretty nice of them, don't you?"

"I can't say that I do, no. What business is it of theirs, taking a child away from his kin?"

"Well, Uncle Nelson was only a relation by marriage. And he didn't want Jack anyway, really."

"He must have legal recourse," his mother muses. "Or something- I can't believe that the state would allow this. What about the police?"

"Officer Olson thinks Jack'll be a lot happier where he is now, anyway," Mac says, a little tentatively. There's a querulous sort of tone in his mom's voice that he doesn't much like. Of course, she's had a lot on her mind lately. "I mean, he used to belt Jack for not memorising Bible verses right."

"Your grandfather was never amiss to a birch."

That's an eye-opener. He can't imagine his Grandpa Harry going out to cut a switch...only, now she's said it he can, and it's sort of unnerving. "Wouldn't even let him go out of the house, or play with other kids, or anything- anyway, the Forresters will take care of him. Mike gets along with him great, and they have plenty of room in that big house-"

"Oh yes. David Forrester, successful career man," she says, suddenly bitter as chicory. "Angus, how do you suppose I'd feel if some troublemaking, good for nothing couple came and took you away, because you thought they could do a better job of looking after you? I'm not going to stand by idly and watch this happen, I'll tell you that."

The hot chocolate's just as good as before. He's the one who's gone off. 

(Apropos of nothing, it occurs to him that it's the first time in months she's called him by his Christian name. It's been MacGyver just as he likes, ever since the car crash...)

"So," Ellen MacGyver says, with her usual resolute tenderness. "Call your sister down, won't you? Let's see if we can't put our heads together and solve this."

"Solve what?"

"Reuniting uncle and nephew, of course!"

He recognises that tone in her voice. Sounds scarily like his, when he's on the track of some discovery or new chemical formulation and has no intention of letting anybody stop him. 

_Uh-oh._

***************

"So now he's coming to dinner," Mac says. "She's going to invite him after the Sunday service, so we have a bit less than a week to plan out what to do."

"He might say no," Mike points out, wobbling across the floor. "Why would the old stick-in-the-mud accept anybody's invitations?" 

(Mac has tried remonstrancing with her about doing handstands in a treehouse, but all she says is that it's hers and she can do as she likes in it. Thus the matter rests; he himself stays firmly parked in the corner, where he can't see how far up they are.)

"Because she wants to help him get Jack back!"

"No way. Didn't you tell her about how he was being beaten and starved and everything?" 

Mac sighs. "That doesn't go for much. Jack doesn't exactly look starved, does he?"

"Just cos he's resourceful, doesn't mean Mr Davies didn't try."

"But it's not that easy to prove. And I'm scared that Mom's going to talk to Officer Olson next, and start putting two and two together. She already thinks that your parents oughta be ashamed of themselves, no good asking them...I don't even know what she'll do, if she finds out I had a hand in this."

"Boo to her goose too...sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay."

Mike finally lets herself drop down, with a crash that makes Mac cringe. "I'll go get Jack. We should be having this conversation with him, really."

"You'll distract him," Mac says quickly. "I mean, nothing much can happen for a week, and he has to concentrate on schoolwork. It's going to be hard work getting him up to scratch before September."

"But he's my blood brother. I think I get to decide whether we tell him, and I always vote for telling the truth."

"Blood brother?"

"Sure! Old Viking thing. You make a cut, and your friend makes a cut, and you slap your wounds together and let the blood mingle- and then you're blood brothers, just as good as the regular kind. He was already bleeding after that whuppin' we gave him that night, so I just found my dad's old penknife and did me. And we swore to be there for each other, forever. He said nobody had ever done anything like it for him, before."

He can believe that one. "That could be so awful if you had the wrong blood types." 

Though he has an idea that Chuck would dig it. Maybe he'll mention it to the gang, some time. (Allison thinks that the four of them calling themselves a gang is dumb, because they never do anything naughtier than maybe nicking a couple apples. She probably has a point.)

"Eh. Spice of life n' things. Besides- I'm brave, and you're smart, but he's sneaky. And where Mr Davies is concerned, I think a little sneakiness is more than called for."

"But it's gonna make him so miserable." After all the heartache Jack's been through, why can't the world just leave him alone and let him be happy for a while? Bad as he's been (how much worse than he's let on?), he doesn't deserve to be harried his whole life. 

"Better miserable than kidnapped," Mike says seriously. "You aren't the only kid in town with a mom to worry about. Mine hasn't been this interested in life since I gave up dresses."

"You could always start wearing them again."

Since Mac's expecting the punch, he's able to duck out of the way just in time. 


	6. Chapter 6

They compromise and tell Jack that night, after he's finished dinner and his allotment of sentence diagrams (mostly accurate, if messily-done). He's stunningly philosophical. 

"Well, that was fun while it lasted. Guess I'd better slope off out of here, while the going's good-"

"No!" Mike shouts. 

"Stop yelling at him," Mac intercedes. "He's scared enough already, don't you see?" He's against scaring people on principle, but a treehouse strikes him as a particularly bad place to do it. 

Jack narrows his eyes. "And if I am, so what? I'm only being practical."

"But all the plans we've been making," Mike pleads. "About your next year at school, and that trip to the air show you were looking forward to, and everything- and maybe you didn't give two hoots about swapping blood after all, but I did."

He does have the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, then.

"Plus I saw you through the kitchen window the other day. Stealing chocolate chip cookies, and Mom hugged you and said you could have one any time you wanted to ask. Don't tell me that meant nothing. You were practically crying."

"Geez. Did you have to say that in front of Mac?"

"I don't mind," Mac says quickly. "You get pretty used to waterworks, with an older sister in the house."

(Actually, Allison doesn't cry all that much; but she does sometimes. 'specially lately.) 

"Not with this older sister, I hope," Mike mutters. "But I thought you liked it with us. Why would you want to leave now?"

"They aren't the first people to have taken me in and made lots of promises." Jack's playing with his rucksack's straps again; a sure sign he's feeling nervous, Mac's come to notice. "And I always end up ditched- well, except for Uncle Charlie, and even he's in prison. Your folks will get bored, or mad at me when I act up. And I'll get tossed out again, same as always."

"But they wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be right," Mike says. Looking, despite her words, rather close to tears herself. 

"What's right got to do with it? I have to look after myself. And right now, the best way I can do that is to make sure I never have to live with Uncle Nelson again," Jack declares, with energetic vim. 

This isn't getting them anywhere, Mac realises. They need a totally different approach. 

"So what does happen to you? Are you heading back to some lonely ranch in Texas?"

"You guys believe everything you see on tv- it isn't all tumbleweeds and desert, we have some real big cities down there. Houston has the prettiest airport," Jack says, with a fond happiness that, for once, owes nothing to cunning or greed. "I used to get away and watch the planes landing whenever I could. Flying in all the way from Mexico, or San Marcos...there was even an express to Minneapolis-St Paul. Wish they'd sent me north on that, I'd have found a way to take it right back home again."

"Not so much a cowboy, then," Mac says. "More of a big city operator, huh? Somebody who can tell us ignorant hicks a thing or two?" 

"Well, yeah," Jack replies, relaxed and mildly contemptuous now. "I happen to like civilisation, so what? You wanna make something of it?"

"Oh, it just strikes me," Mac says, letting the sentence trail out nice and lazy. "Just strikes me, that if you're half as good as you've been boasting, all those cons with Charlie and everything, you wouldn't need to run off. You'd come up with some cute plan to take care of Nelson Davies for good, and keep living comfy with the Forresters just as long as you felt like it. But hey. I could be wrong."

"I take it back," Jack says, after a moment. "About everybody in this town being a hick. You're gonna make one scary hustler when you grow up."

"Our Angus MacGyver? Not seeing it," Mike says, shaking her head. "It wasn't that subtle, even."

"Doesn't matter how dumb the approach is, if the mark falls for it," Jack says. And adds another couple words, which Mac has a pretty good idea shouldn't ever be repeated in front of his mother. 

Only the way Jack says it, it's almost respectful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for period anti-Semitism. Obviously Mac doesn't like it one bit, but this is 1962 and Mr Davies is not a politically correct man.
> 
> (As I've said before, opinions of characters not meant to represent those of the author...)

Mr Davies says an exceedingly long and boring grace. Allison looks like she's trying to fight down the giggles. Mac lets his thoughts drift, pondering the structure of benzene rings, before remembering that he has a job to do and hastily redirecting his attention. 

Nuthin' doing. Jack was right, this is dull. 

Mom's paying close attention, though, and compliments Mr Davies for his fine diction afterwards (a comment that the gentleman takes well, if not elegantly; he harrumphs his way through a thank you.) She always has been good at putting people at ease; and today, as they work through buttermilk chicken and the nicest lemonade in town (naturally), even the awkward Badger loosens up a bit. Allows himself to be coaxed into discussion, which is how they end up spending half an hour talking about various Biblical genealogies. Since that's what floats his boat. 

"Most children," he says to Allison, after she's correctly identified the discrepancy between Matthew and Luke (agreeing with his proposed solution for same, of course- one for Mary and one for Joseph). "Most children are not nearly so- shall we say, well-versed? You are to be congratulated." 

Allison is fourteen and considers herself practically an adult already; but she works up a smile from somewhere. Mom laughs, though.

"And she's not the only one in the family. Angus here won a prize at Sunday school once."

"Oh, it wasn't that much," Mac says, feeling hugely embarrassed (now why should that be, when everybody here will approve?) "Just cos I was the only kid there who'd actually read Acts and could describe the story about that guy who fell out of the window."

"Don't be ashamed," Mr Davies says, almost warmly. "If you're better than your peers, that's no reason for you to hide your light under a bushel."

"Yeah. Though...I guess Jack could probably beat me handily."

Somebody had to say the name first; the kid’s been hanging over their meal like a frivolous spectre. All this tension is getting to him, Mac thinks.

"Oh, him," Allison says artlessly. "How's he getting on with the Forresters?"

"Not as well as he'd thought," Mac says. "He's so used to being the centre of attention. Jealous that the girl in the house is still it- but she's their natural child, so I guess you'd expect that." 

_("He hasn't seen me for all of three weeks," Jack had said, hanging upside-down off a tire swing. "And he's that self-obsessed, it oughta be easy to convince him I share his faults. People like that kind of thing. Makes 'em feel better, thinking that they aren't alone."_

_He’d given the swing a good shove, ducked out of the way. "You’re saying that like you aren’t an attention-hog."_

_Jack had come perilously close to swinging right back into him. "I meant about the jealousy thing, you dope. Maybe I do a song and dance to get stuff I want, but I'm grateful for it afterwards. Uncle Charlie always said that ingratitude was bad business...but Uncle Nelson won't think like that, so just use the line like I said, will you? Trust me, it'll do the job.")_

"So thoroughly unlike this house, then," Allison quips. 

Too bd he can’t tease her just now. "I think he might actually prefer to be back with you," he says to Mr Davies, making sure to look the man straight in the eye. "Only- he's too proud to admit as much, even to me."

_("See, this might turn out fine after all. If nobody mentioned me to him, it’d fester and he'd come up with some nasty plan all on his lonesome. If you bring it up first, you can help guide him...")_

"Angus had an idea about that," his mother says proudly. "He suggested to me, perhaps you ought to take the solstice sermon."

A long-standing affair at their church: four times a year, the pastor steps down from the pulpit and lets somebody else deliver the sermon. Tradition has it that it started because the first preacher in Mission City wanted to get early away for his fishing holiday, one year, and prevailed upon an obliging parishioner while he finished sorting his tackle. Rumour has it that the tradition has prevailed because all subsequent pastors have been just as devoted to the sport. 

"Well, I'm familiar with it, of course...but I'd never felt called upon to serve, to speak."

"Everybody in town will be there," Mom presses him. “Including the Forresters.”

"If they go to church," Allison says. “What about Mac’s friend? The Ryders are Jewish."

"Almost everybody in town," Mom corrects, with a light laugh. "It would be a wonderful opportunity to preach something about children. Obedience, respect for elders, the continual offer of salvation. Nothing that’d apply to my two angels, of course."

(Allison’s turn for looking embarrassed. He’s too busy focusing.)

"I begin to see your point," Mr Davies says. "If perhaps, I was inspired...a conversion message, perhaps? And perhaps a comparison to Elijah and the bears would be apt. Very inspiring story, that."

“It’d appeal to him for sure,” Mac comments. “Having a whole sermon preached directly at him. If I know Jack, probably the easiest way for him to return home is if he could turn it into a big public production number.”

_(“Suppose he preaches such a terrific sermon, that you can’t bear it and run straight back to him?”_

_Jack, whooping wildly, had fallen off the swing at that point. Mac had run over, terrified he might have been really hurt._

_“So,“ he’d asked, looking up a little dazedly. “When did you get hit by the stupid ray?”_

_Evidently, he’d been just fine.)_

“Of course, I shouldn’t want to stroke the child’s ego. He’s quite vain enough as it is.”

“But to save a child...besides. It’d be using the devil’s own weapons against him.”

This doesn’t sound much like his mom; or rather, it doesn’t sound much like his mom when the three of them are alone, just having a good time and discussing Allison’s psych studies or his science. Sounds like coffee shop mom, who can talk a blue streak of nonsense when it comes to keeping up with customers. 

But that’s the point; she’s never been like this upstairs. Of course, Mr Davies is the first gentleman to be up here since-

( _don’t think about dad now, you gotta concentrate_ )

“Plus, he’s been having trouble fitting in. One of my friends hit him, just a love tap really, but he was blubbing for ages."

Jack hadn't told him to mention that, but it’s true, and shores up their story a little more. Jesse had apologised a ton for accidentally connecting with a still-healing bruise.

Mr Davies looks rather pleased than otherwise. "If the young rapscallion was induced to tears by that, he must have had rather less violent playmates than he demanded I believe."

And a sudden quick sympathy hits Mac; maybe the problem is that the stuff Jack was never lying about, living rough and dangerously, is what Mr Davies had least wanted to believe about a child's life. And if you subtracted those plus the adventurous bits that are embroidered just for fun, you'd pretty much have to conclude that not a single word Jack ever says is true. Which explains a few things. 

And if much-despised Uncle Charlie had helped saved Jack from some of that, when the dignified church goer hadn't- but Mr Davies is talking now, and Mac forgets the thought.

“Might I ask the cause of the fracas?”

Looks almost mellow now, as he drinks cloudy lemonade. Like a regular person. 

“Oh, he was playing a prank on Jesse. Tied his wallet to a fishing pole and pretended to be catching it out of the river. We were all laughing, Jesse’s such a cheapskate.”

"Ah," Mr Davies says, with understanding paternalism. "He'd be your Jewish friend, I'd take it?"

His mother laughs, politely. Allison looks thoroughly nonplussed. 

"Wrong friend," Mac snaps off. "It's Neil who's the Jewish one, and I don't think he'd like you saying that."

There goes all his sympathy. He has to fight down a sudden, stupid urge to swing out a punch; because this isn't the first time he's heard tossed-off jokes like that, and every time, sensitive Neil Ryder flushes and tries to disappear into the wallpaper. One of the reasons that he and Chuck and Jesse are a gang in the first place; that whole lot at school, and they were the only three boys willing to stick up for Neil. 

"Angus," his mother says. "Don't be rude. Apologise to Mr Davies."

He's always obeyed his mother before; but this time he just plain wouldn't, if not for the thought of his friend. Sweet-tempered Jack, who doesn't seem to have a malicious bone in his body, pranking aside. But he wouldn't be like that after eight years with this guy. 

(And maybe Jack has exaggerated his mistreatment, maybe Mr Davies really isn’t any worse than a strict Mission City father; but this whole meal has been giving him the creeps. Maybe there was something to run away from, that's harder to put into words. Mike’s mom wouldn’t have made her apologise like this.) 

_This plan of yours better work, Jack._

"I'm sorry," he says, low but clear. 

"Apology accepted," Mr Davies says graciously. “To return to the previous topic...I shouldn’t know if any other gentleman has already requested the slot. That could be a difficulty.”

“Now, you just leave that to me. Once I let the church committee know that they'll have to do without any catered coffee until September if they don't let you try, you’ll be surprised just how fast the pastor will be shaking your hand…”

All things considered, Mac’s never been so glad to do the dishes in his entire life.


	8. Chapter 8

"Why'd you make me apologise?" Mac asks, as soon as the coast’s clear (normally they’d just carry the dishes down to the cafe dishwasher, but this is the good china and has to be washed by hand). His mother doesn't know anything about the plot to keep Jack here. She doesn't have to worry about offending Mr Davies.

"It's not your place to go criticising adults," she rebukes him. "Especially not guests in our home. He's clearly a very lonely man, suffering under a great deal of strain."

"You wouldn't ever say a thing like that, however upset you were." He ought to know. They've been living through that. 

She sighs. "I wouldn't, but you'll have to learn how to be more tolerant as you grow up. People say all sorts of things without really meaning them. Live and let live, as your grandfather would say."

He does not, actually, think that Grandpa Harry would say a thing like that. Rather the contrary: there'd been more than one fishing trip devoted to the importance of standing up for what you believe in. But then, Grandpa Harry is her dad, and she ought to know him better- and he doesn't want to think his mom's wrong about anything. That can’t be right either.

"Some of the comments I hear in the coffee shop, especially early in the morning...I wouldn't have any customers if I objected to every single one.” She hands him the last dish. “Dry that, and I think we're done. All better now?"

He's not; but there isn't much point saying so. And Jack’s certainly improved his self-confidence about lying. 

“Oh, sure.”

Should he feel good or bad, that she believes him?

*********

The next few weeks pass with hectic busyness, as they always do, with the school year ending and summer opening up. The season traces such a narrow passage this far north, safehold between sodden winter depths. Even adults feel it, shackled as they are to buildings and timetables, and indulge the kids who wake every morning resolutely determined to enjoy every bit of sunshine while it lasts. 

(If there was just some way to play hockey right now, it’d be perfect; but MacGyver’s long since accepted that that’s God’s way of reconciling people to wintertime. Jack’s much-vaunted Texas hasn’t any hockey at all, which is just sad.)

Though this year, Mission City is even more excited than usual; the gossip mill is in full swing. The Forresters let it be known that not only will they attend the service, they’ll arrive at church early enough to take a forward pew. They have a fair amount of support in town, if not quite a majority. The sewing circle is firmly on Ruth’s side, and as the main social arbiters in town, they have a lot of sway. 

Nevertheless, Mr Davies garners a certain disorganised following, from various ostracised knitters and disgruntled fathers, and nearly all the single men in town are on his side. There’s a half-mooted attempt by some of them to boycott Audrey Yates’ bakery (she’s Ruth’s sister), though people mostly like her muffins too much to make the effort. Besides which, Ellen MacGyver tells everybody that she’s still buying her shop pastries there, despite being Nelson Davies’ foremost advocate. 

For it’s equally well known that the coffee shop is playing host to the Badger on a regular basis, where he can write and redraft the sermon in friendly company. Mom provides him with numerous cups of coffee and an occasional encouraging word, Allison makes numerous suggestions based on her psychology reading (most of which are rejected out of hand). Mac listens patiently and offers up a quote from Shakespeare, which Mr Davies likes well enough to use as the capstone for the speech. 

Jack stays well out of the way of all this, with the irrefutable excuse that he has plenty of studying to do before school starts. Whether that be in Wisconsin or Minnesota. Smart move, Mac thinks; he’s hugely busy himself. To the general annoyance of the gang, but that can’t be helped. Lots to do, so little time-

"Explain this to me again," Allison says one day, very dubious. "You need to borrow a whole twenty bucks from me, on top of your own savings? Because this sounds awfully like Jack's scamming you."

"He's not even going to touch it. I'll give it to people myself."

"But it's all for his benefit? Aren't the Forresters giving him a generous enough allowance already?"

Jack's prepared him for this question. "Yeah, but he figures they want to know what he's using it for, so he has to buy actual stuff he can tell them about. He’ll pay me back later, after everything’s died down."

"Somehow, I don't think that a smart kid like that would be completely devoid of savings." She’s retrieved the money from her piggy bank, but is still keeping a tight grip on the bills. 

"I don't know about that. Even if he does, that's money he’ll need if he has to hit the road again."

“In which case, you’ll never be repaid. Angus, what’s it even all for?”

"Bribes," Mac says, cheerfully honest. "Getting every kid in town to do just the right thing at the right time, during the church service. Jack’s worked out all the choreography."

He's caught her attention now. "But that’s nuts. You can't expect kids to do anything right without a lot of careful drilling, it’s not in human nature."

"Well, I was going to ask about that too. Who better to arrange a big psychology experiment, and get all the timing and everything just so, than you? C’mon, you’d be perfect to mastermind it."

“Does,” Allison asks, studying him with her patented Scary Big Sister Stare. “Does Jack Dalton have that astute an understanding of people that he guessed all that about me from our few chance meetings, or did you give him more to go on?”

“I guess I might have mentioned a few things about you, he knows what you want to study at college. Said he thought he might be doing sorta the same thing.”

“I want to be a scientist, not a flimflam artist. Though there’s no denying the two professions have certain similarities...okay, I’ll do it, and give you the money. But only because I don’t like Mr Davies one little bit. I don’t like that Mom keeps inviting him to dinner.”

“It’s only because he wants somebody to ask about how this sermon thing is going. It’ll be over after the twenty-first.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Allison mutters. Unexpectedly scoops him up in a cuddle that squeezes all the breath out of him. “It’ll be good when it’s just the three of us again, won’t it?”

Even for his hug-obsessed big sister, that seemed a little unmotivated. 

*********

Mission City talks about that Sunday for years. A favourite staple for potluck dinners and slow times at the sewing circle, a do-you-remember of more than usual proportions. It escalates far beyond mere gossip to the stuff of local legend. 

Everybody does come (even the Ryders, who point out that it's not as if they're missing their services). After all, this isn't really about a church sermon anymore. 

What it is, is the making of one epic showdown. 

The Forresters live up to their promise, and arrive at crack of dawn to take their seats directly in front of the pulpit (there's already plenty of people milling about, but the empty pew awaits them as though it's been reserved). Neat and dignified, all four of them. Ruth's brought out her best jewelry for the occasion, David Forrester is wearing his wedding suit. Even Mike has donned a flouncy, too-tight dress for the occasion, which she wears with astonishing aplomb for a hardened tomboy (solaced by a favourite pair of blue jeans underneath, she tells Mac years later). Jack thoughtlessly crushes some of the ruffles out of sorts, while snoozing on her shoulder in the aisle seat. He's wearing the same sober black Sunday clothes that Mr Davies always used to dress him in, prompting much whispering about what that might entail. There's considerable whispering generally, as parishioners file in and cram every possible seat.

Across the way, Mac glances over, rubs surreptitiously at his neck. Positively itching to get out of his Sunday best. It's all right for girls, they don't have to wear ties. 

But leastways he doesn't have to sit next to Mr Davies, who's stiffly positioned next to his mom. Dressed in a suit even plainer than Jack's, clasping neatly typed carbons, and facing the trial ahead of him with grim, righteous determination. 

"It'll be okay," Mac mouths to Jack, when Mike shakes her brother awake just as the service starts. To reassure himself as much as anything. 

His friend waves back, looking perfectly self-assured. 

Their pastor rather hurries through the early stages of the service, yields the floor eagerly. He's quite as interested as anybody else to see how this will turn out. Mr Davies nods at him, ascends the pulpit. Begins to deliver the sermon that he's prepared with so much time and effort. 

Clearly, he expects to be majestic. That his carefully garnered Biblical quotations will impress the crowd, except where leavened by a few well-chosen jokes. That his mere presence in the pulpit guarantees him a deep, silent awe. That the endpoint will see a sobbing, recondite child begging forgiveness, a congregation fully on his side, and a deeply embarrassed set of Forresters to cap off the occasion. 

But almost from the start, it starts going wrong. Ellen (unintentionally) and Allison (fully intentionally) have encouraged him to pile on reference after confusing reference. Skipping about the Good Book in a fashion that thoroughly bewilders the Missionaries, who are accustomed to nodding through a few simple platitudes. None of the pauses he leaves for laughter meet with anything except confused silence. And when, in exasperation, he abandons those and carries on in a more serious tenor...

well, that's when the giggling starts. 

Parents glance anxiously to reassure themselves that it's not their children laughing; and are invariably relieved to see them sitting quietly. And yet slow ripples of tittering keep breaking out, popping up across the church like a plague: here and there and everywhere. Whenever Mr Davies makes anything faintly approaching a coherent point, is when the laughter's loudest. They know when such points are coming, of course. MacGyver had made two copies when he'd typed up the speech on the library typewriter.

Not that anybody would guess that, from the way Mac stays still and straight and upright. He does have a duty to his mom to think of.

Their speaker grows ever more angry and unhappy, seeing such inane dissolution of his hopes; his voice grows testier, his temper shorter. He plunges into the section on ingratitude (mostly written by Ellen MacGyver)- crying out against the thoughtless, insensitive child, who doesn't understand the goodness he's been offered. No laughter now. Jack's been pretending to doze throughout the speech, but he's noticeably uncomfortable now. Squirming in the pew and pulling away from Mike. 

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth, to have a thankless child?" Mr Davies proclaims; and for a moment, he's exactly the speaker he thinks he is. Deep, sonorous, and impressively heart-rending. 

Until a small voice pipes up- 

"That's not in the Bible!" 

Timing and delivery, Jack had said with a wink. 

Even expecting it, Mac's amazed. The comedic awkwardness of his half-risen pose, the absolutely perfect tone that still carries through the building, the sheer, silly, childish outrage that Jack pumps into the question. If he had no idea what was going on, he'd probably be laughing anyway. But he does know, and what's more, this is his cue to lead the laughter like a choir call and response. He starts; and every other kid in church obeys his lead like magic. 

The town follows along helplessly. Mission City's church has never heard the like: refreshing, unifying laughter, joining them all in hearty hilarity. 

Mr Davies goes purple, sputters, and succeeds only in causing the fading laughter to break out afresh. Grabs up the pulpit copy of the Bible, and flings the book at Jack. It's a good throw, and connects. Jack promptly falls plump into the aisle. 

Not hurt, anybody can see that, but visibly shocked. Stunned, that anybody could have done such a thing, could so blasphemously offer up violence in a church- and the laughter dies altogether. 

Mrs Forrester (not in on the plot, but performing just as well as if she was) all but falls over herself, as she kneels to clutch Jack to her bosom. Screams. 

What, precisely, she does scream is a matter of hot debate for decades to come. Ruth herself insists that she can't quite recall what happened, in the stress of that heated moment. Mac's distracted (his mother's vying for his attention), but guesses his recollection is about as good as anyone's.

"If you want to go throwing things at people," she shouts, "why don't you try it on an adult? Suffer the little children!"

(If it'd been a more coherent sentiment, maybe it wouldn't have been so fondly recalled.)

She rises, carrying her acquiescent child, and starts walking down the aisle. Alone at first, not for long. First her family: then other mothers, closing safely around them. Children run to catch up; fathers follow, pushing out importantly as though it'd been all their idea to begin with. 

Their pastor stays put, Mac notices as he charges after Jack; but then, that's sorta to be expected. He emerges into the sunlight and squeezes his way through the crowd, to find his friend safe in Ruth Forrester's lap. David looking on protectively, sister and brother holding hands. 

"Nobody," Mike says warmly, "is ever gonna question you staying with us again, you got that? Nobody. You're stuck with us for good."

"Jack," MacGyver says. "I'm really glad you're staying."

It's so good, to be able to say the plain simple truth after all these weeks of deception. 

"Life sentence, huh?" Jack says, hitting just the right note of humour and half-sobbed joy. "I think I can live with that..."

Prompting another round of laughter; he listens to it with an artless, who-me? air of bewilderment. When really, Mac thinks, he's just lapping up the attention. That's Jack all over. 

Allison's tugging on his arm. "Mom says to get back in, right now."

"What?" When everything's happening out here?

But he follows. They get back to the pew just in time for the pastor to resume his normal duties, quite ignoring the denudation of his congregation. He's a pretty unflappable man, but then the Mission City pastor has to be. 

Mr Davies is sitting on the other side of his mother again, frowning and oblivious. Mac cannot imagine what's going through his mind just now, and tries hard not to speculate. 

When the service is, finally, over, he rises with a jerky, unseeing motion. Ellen MacGyver catches his sleeve. 

"You'll come to dinner, won't you?" she asks. "We'd be that pleased to have you."

"Of course," he says, automatically. 

Mac glances at Allison, as his sister grabs his hand in a tight convulsive grip. She doesn't like the sound of this. 

He doesn't think he does, either. 


	9. Chapter 9

"You know," Allison says to Mike, "when I asked, could you look after Mac a little bit for me, you know I meant more by way of giving him something to do. Asking him to build stuff. Wasn't getting yourself a little brother sort of drastic?"

"You're too good an advertisement for it," Mike points out. "Besides, why would you think I'd be having second thoughts? Everybody at home loves Jack, and I think he's the most hilarious thing since they cancelled the Bilko show."

There aren't very many reasons for the two of them to be together alone, but Allison had specially requested Mike come look at a Thing in Mac's workshop. So of course she'd bicycled up (maybe it'd be a Dangerous and Exciting Thing), only to find no Thing, no Mac, just one deeply worried fourteen year-old. This is not normal. 

"So he's definitely not having any second thoughts, you'd say. Even though Mr Davies is his uncle."

"Nope, nope, nope, and that'll be an extra serving of nope on the side. Don't you dare make him start questioning that now," Mike adds emphatically. "He's up to his eyeballs in schoolwork, I've never seen any kid working that hard at it when they didn't have to. Or at all, come to think of it."

"Uh-huh. You realise I've barely seen my brother all summer? All that private tutoring Angus is giving him- Mom actually had to order him to go play this afternoon."

"Yeah, but you know your brother likes that kinda stuff. Explaining is his big joy in life. C'mon, what's really bugging you?"

"I keep thinking, if I'd sat down and worked out the underlying psychological impulses at work here, I would have known better," Allison admits. "You see, if Mr Davies had just been left alone to work, and if we'd given him actually helpful advice, he'd have got what he wanted. A big public to-do and everybody would have agreed that Jack should have gone home with him. But I put all this effort into tipping the scales the other way, just because my brother thought it'd be a nice thing to do for a friend of his...and that just wasn't the right move."

"Why?

The budding psychologist is very doleful now. "Suppose you're a woman-"

"Easily done."

"Hush. Suppose you're a grown woman, and you've spent your whole life in the home where you were born, with your family, and your husband and your kids, and then boom! One day, your whole family vanishes and you're the only adult left. And it's just you, trying to look after two kids all on your lonesome, and you don't really know what you're doing, except that you don't," Allison says, teeth set, "let your kids help out at all. But you're smart and strong and determined, so you get on with it. And then one day you meet someone who's even unluckier because he doesn't have any family at all, except his kid who ran off, and you sympathise with him because this is basically your worst nightmare. And he tries so hard to get his kid back, and the whole town laughs at him. You know what happens next?"

"You laugh at him too?"

"You fall in love! You talk yourself into being in love, because you're so lonely yourself and you feel sorry for the guy! And now my mom is making noises about selling the shop, so we can move to Wisconsin- are you starting to see why I'm regretting my part in all this?" Allison demands. "If Jack had just gone home with him, my family wouldn't be in this fix!"

"...I mean, I can't figure why she's in love," Mike agrees, nonplussed. "But if she is, what's wrong with that?"

"A lot of things! I mean, I don't want to leave all my friends here or anything, and neither would my brother- how often do you think you'll see him again if we moved? But it's not even good for her. It'll tear her heart out to leave Mission City, she loves this place as much as me or Angus- I mean, this shop is everything to her. Her mother's dream, the centre of town, everything she appreciates about life is wrapped up in this one building. And she thinks she wants to give it up for that- that guy," she finishes, with weary contempt. "So I was hoping against hope that you could give me some better news, but it sounds like you don't."

"I'm sorry." Mike's not positive what she's apologising for, but it looks like it'll help Allison to hear it. "I didn't think it'd be anything like this...look, if it makes you feel any better, I thought Jack would be good for Mac too. He hadn't even been hanging out with me much since the car crash. Just spending all his time with Chuck and the gang- and I don't like Chuck, he says he doesn't want girls tagging along. When Jack showed up and we were together, it was like having my friend back again...so I did my best to keep that going, is all."

"Okay, so you're a better influence on him than Chuck...fair enough. I just- I should have seen this coming, I should have done something."

"Can I point something out?"

"Sure."

"We're kids. You're fourteen, you can't fix everything that's wrong with the world, or even just your family. If Jack's teaching me anything, it's appreciating my childhood while I still have it- because we shouldn't have to be making the tough decisions. That's what adults are for."

"Allison!" Ellen screams, in a shrill broken cry most unlike herself. "Come up here, there's been an accident!"

They run upstairs in tandem, to find Ellen and Officer Olson and Angus. He's sobbing and covered in blood. 

Mike finds herself torn between sympathy and a deep upwelling of fascination. News doesn't happen along every day in Mission City, or even every month; but this surely is. 

(With a little corner of her mind tucked aside to hope that Allison listens to her advice. Because if she knows Allison, the girl's going to try to fix her brother now. 

And that really shouldn't even be her job...)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...anybody who's wandered across this fic will have seen "Blood Brothers", yes? 
> 
> Briefest possible version: young Mac and Chuck accidentally shoot Jesse. Mac's far more traumatised about this than Chuck is, for some reason.

"For pity's sake, Ellen," Audrey Yates repeats. For about the fourth time. 

It is, Ellen reflects, a distinct pity that her best friend never had the opportunity to try her hand at theatricals, like she'd always wanted. Audrey is certainly more than histrionic enough to pull it off. 

"Well, Nelson's pointed out that he can hardly live in Mission City. He wouldn't have a moment's peace, the disgraceful way everybody's behaved."

"You're at that stage already, calling him by his Christian name? And James not even in the ground for a whole year..."

"Come now, aren't you going to tell me to follow my heart? You certainly did in high school," Ellen says, hiding a slight smile behind her cup of coffee. The baker's always so exercised by any slightest hint of scandal. 

"But this soon...why, it's positively indecent. We don't even know anything about this Badger."

"I know enough," Ellen says. "Even the most biased Missionary would have to admit he's devoted to the church, and knows his holy writ inside out. Independent means, before you ask. I won't hold his being from Wisconsin against him- besides which, he's really from Texas anyway."

"After twenty years, does place of birth still count? And the devil can quote scripture."

"Angel or devil, I'd walk a barefoot mile for anybody who's been able to comfort Angus like he has," Ellen argues. A little more energetically than she might have done, but she hadn't expected Audrey to put up such stiff opposition. "Their prayer sessions together do him more good than anything I've said...I was at my wits end after the liquor incident. He still isn't going back into that workshop until I'm positive he won't try it again."

"Harsh sentence, for a boy of his proclivities. I wonder if you haven't blown that a little out of proportion," Audrey muses, fetching herself a refill (few people are allowed to touch that hallowed coffee pot, but she's one of the privileged). "You know my naughty little Roxy's tried the occasional nip, and she's even younger."

"Allison's never done anything of the sort."

"Allison's never had any reason to do so- it's a hard thing, what your son's been through. Can you blame him for wanting to ease the pain?" 

"I don't want him to wipe the memory away in alcohol fumes. I don't want him to take poison, either- taking my gun, call that youthful high spirits. What happened to Jesse was simply an accident. But deliberately getting himself blind drunk, when I haven't had so much as a drop of liquor in the house since my father left- no. I won't allow him to throw away his life, however much he thinks he wants to."

"Not that way, at least," Audrey murmurs. The trouble is, Ellen's always so terribly in earnest. It isn't that she doesn't understand her children; it's that she tries to hold them to the ridiculously high standards they set themselves.  

Perhaps she isn't such bad a fit for Nelson Davies after all. 


	11. Chapter 11

It rather perplexes Jack in later years, to find out that the accepted boyish response to "Romeo and Juliet" is derogatory boredom. Course, his introduction to the drama was as a summer's meal ticket, and that colours his thinking. Uncle Charlie had played a surprisingly convincing Juliet in a cut-down, cut-rate fairground production (after gruffly knocking down the ticket seller, who'd joked during rehearsals about what a girl he'd make off the stage).

Nevertheless: quite a bit of sword fighting, astonishingly rude jokes (his job as plant had been to guide the paying audience’s reactions, but they'd mostly done the work themselves)- and sure, it's a love story, but what's wrong with that? And after a month of shinning up a rope to Mac’s bedroom every night, he’s developed a unique and abiding respect for that famous balcony scene.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Mac says, passing the bottle back to him- the alcohol couldn’t possibly have had time to kick in yet, but he’s already looking calmer. That's suggestive. “Three stories in the dead of night? It’d scare me stiff.”

“Too bad that you’ve got a bedroom on this side of the house,” Jack agrees. The Chrysanthemum Cafe has a rather curious situation, by the standards of flat Minnesota; the lay of the land near Parker Hill means that the building looks to be two stories on the street side, but is visibly three around the back. "But then again, no risk of breaking those big plate glass windows. And less chance of getting caught."

"By who? Nobody's out this late."

"I am," Jack points out, taking a measured sip from the bottle. Not a lot: he isn't afraid of heights, but he also isn't stupid enough to try this descent blind drunk. Uncle Charlie's indulgences hadn't quite extended to letting his nephew become acquainted with liquor, though he's not felt the need to tell Mac this. "So somebody else might have their reasons for being out, too- you have to take all kinds of possibilities into account, if you're going to break the rules. Think things through."

"Having to think things through," Mac murmurs, letting his head slide down against Jack's shoulder. (Jack objects to this not a whit; it's comfy enough, and Mac seems to be one of those people who needs a lot of physical contact in his life.) "That sorta seems like justifying this, almost."

Mac's having a good night. Sleepy and glad for company, almost as cheerful again as he'd been at their first meeting. A week to go before school starts, and Jack's pretty sure they'll both make it. His test results are due tomorrow, and he has a good feeling about how it'd gone.

It’s been kinda ironic, but he probably wouldn't have, if Jesse hadn't died. What Mac's been needing for the last month is distraction- people, problems, anything- and since his mother's locked him in his bedroom until school starts, the most restless kid Jack's ever met has hardly any options for putting in the time. Praying with Mr Davies is one of them. Tutoring's been another: and when Angus MacGyver decides you ought to learn something, Jack's discovered, you tend not to forget it.

Also, drinking illicit liquor in the evenings: but that's more about getting him some rest than anything else.

"It's horribly like having a crush," Mac had said to Jack, the third day after the accident. So worn out he'd been nodding over the math textbook. "I can stop thinking about Jesse if I'm talking to you, if I'm keeping busy. But if I'm just trying to get to sleep, I have to stop thinking- and I can't do that. I just can't, my mind keeps going whether I want it to or not."

"You must have had some sleep by now."

"Sure. That first night, when I sneaked down to my workshop and distilled some methylated spirits so it'd be drinkable," Mac says, yawning. "That was okay, I sleep just fine when I'm drunk. But Mom was so furious- look, were you putting me on about all the Texas stuff, or did you really used to do a lot of crazy illegal stuff?"

Not being in his right mind, the question's forgivable. "I really did."

"Think you could get me something to drink? Not during the day, she might come in any time then. At night. I could let down a rope, you could tie the bottle to it."

"Bad move. First rule of drinking, don't drink by yourself- why don't you come down, and I'll meet you in the backyard?"

"Two reasons. One, I'm afraid of heights, two, I promised Mom not to leave the house until she said I could."

"You promised not to drink, either."

"'s funny," Mac slurs (the exhaustion is clearly getting to him). "But she was so mad and busy saying how she'd make sure I'd never drink again, she forgot to have me say so...so it's okay, really. And I gotta get some sleep, I'm so tired."

And six months ago this had been a model Sunday school boy, Jack reflects, with much pride. Now he's rules-lawyering like the best of 'em.

"Okay. Only, where do I find a ladder big enough to reach your window?"

"You don't. Um...I'll attach a hook under my windowsill, so it can't be easily seen," Mac says, looking deeply relieved to have an actual engineering problem to engage with again. "And fix up some rope with knots so you can climb up."

Mere weeks after getting himself fixed up for good, and he's being asked to risk life and limb in order to supply a minor with liquor. Hmm. Mac's his friend, and more- without his say-so, Mike never would have noticed him. There's certainly a debt owing, and he isn't a coward.

But something else is putting him off the idea, something sticking in his throat and holding him back from his usual carefree recklessness. He has an uneasy feeling that its name is Ruth Forrester.

"I'm..."

This is going to be such a strange sentence to say.

"I'm gonna have to ask my mom."

"Oh. Then forget it, I guess. She'd never let you."

"Don't be so sure. I mean, there's a reason I've ended up with Mike's mom and not yours, you know..."

*********

It is, Ruth considers, quite a strange request. Though Mike has come up with some stunners.

"And I'd pay for the bottle out of my allowance," Jack concludes, looking up at her earnestly. "And water it down- about two-thirds, I think. He's not used to it, so that should give the effect without being enough to really hurt him."

"And you're going to smuggle it into Ellen MacGyver's house?"

"If you'll let me," Jack says, meekly docile.

And that charms her to the heart. Mike, now, would have just poured a few ounces from her father's liquor cabinet without asking; and she's inferred quite enough about her foster child's past to suspect he could have thought of that or a half dozen other dodges. But he's trying to do things right. Is honestly concerned enough about her opinion to be upfront and let her veto it, if she doesn't approve.

Ruth is not quite astute enough to recognise that Jack's relying on that warm feeling of inclusion to carry the day; but there's one point she's clever enough to see coming.

"Ellen's certainly being very hard on her boy...how much of it are you going to drink yourself?"

"Enough to be friendly. Not so much I can't do my schoolwork next day, I still want to work at that."

"No sign of an eye-twitch," Ruth notes. "So you must be telling the truth."

He looks mortified. "When- you noticed that?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"It's the worst tell ever," Jack moans. "I thought Uncle Charlie had cured me of it...well, sort of. I couldn't ever lie to him, either."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anybody. About either this," she smiles, "or the alcohol. You can take the brandy tonight, David never drinks that."

"Can't it be bourbon? Mac says he loved that, when his grandpa let him try some."

"Brandy," Ruth says firmly. "It's medicinal."

Brandy it is.

(If Ellen MacGyver ever hears- if Mission City learns that she allowed this, then sewing circle or no sewing circle, she will be a social pariah for life. She’s trusting a great deal to Jack’s ability to stay out of trouble. 

Not only trusting. Over the next month, she takes a certain gleeful delight in hearing all about his nightly hair-raising escapades. 

Perhaps she’s more like her daughter, than she’d ever realised...)


	12. Chapter 12

From Allison MacGyver’s point of view, it has been one horribly frustrating summer.

She has lots of ideas about the proper way to counsel somebody through the grieving process; researching that had been her own form of therapy after the car crash, she’s well aware. None of which agrees with her mother’s idea of handing her brother over to a prayer-obsessed nut with no idea how to relate to children. 

For goodness sake: if they’re going to treat Mac like a criminal, they might as well just give him up to the police already. A juvenile sentence for manslaughter ought to clear his conscience better than any mumbo-jumbo. (Any other town, it would have happened: but not here in Mission City. The FCI is somewhere for other people to go, not Missionaries.)

She’s surreptitiously eavesdropped on the prayer sessions; Mother hasn’t barred her from going to the basement, and Mac’s homemade intercom goes both ways. It’s frankly appalled her. Her sweet, impressionable little brother is being indulged to positively wallow in guilt- which he is way too good at already- and the only reason she’s been able to hold her tongue at all is that he spends most of the day with cheery Jack Dalton. The happy little prankster is exactly what Angus needs in his life right now- well, besides her, but mom keeps sending her off on one pretext or other. She suspects that it’s on purpose. (It’s rotten not having her brother around to cuddle whenever she feels like it; that can’t be helping his state of mind either.)

The intercom’s also let her know about Jack’s nightly liquor sessions- and doesn’t she wish she had a friend good enough to tell about ‘em, cos they’re hilarious. Angus can get awfully loopy when he’s drunk.

So, despite her fears, the situation’s resolved itself without her having to do anything. Angus has been pulled out of the slump almost despite himself, has successfully tutored the ten year old into his class (“Mac, I wish I had a summer to recover from this summer”- “You and me both”), and getting back to both school and his workshop will do him a world of good. It’s fine. They’re good. Yay. 

And then, the Saturday before school’s due to start, Mother suddenly informs her that it isn’t. Because in Wisconsin school won’t begin for a fortnight, and that’s where they’re going. All alone for the autumn with Mr Davies, while she finishes packing up and sells off the shop. 

Allison’s forgotten about that whole mess, in her concern for her brother. 

Why- but seriously, why- does she keep focusing on all the wrong things?

**********

“I couldn’t get any brandy today, but! Something great from back home,” Jack says, pulling out a fiery-looking bottle. “Raw tequila. It’s supposed to have a worm in it, but you guys don’t have the right kind up here.”

Mac samples it, a little dubiously. Does quite a bit of coughing in the next five minutes. 

“Yeah, it can hit like you like that the first time,” Jack says with a nod. Takes a big gulp himself. 

“Oh, geez! That...that is awful. Sorry. I didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

“It’s okay, really,” Mac says. “I mean, we couldn’t have kept this up during the school year anyway- you’re going to need your sleep. And I’m sleeping a lot better these days anyway. You can keep it.” 

“Aw,” Jack says. “You short-circuited the whole thing.”

“What thing?”

“I had this big plan, to fob you off with something that wasn’t alcohol and stick around until you went to sleep tonight, then tell you tomorrow night. Give you some self-confidence about getting on with your life. But I guess you don’t need that after all, do you?”

“...then what was in the bottle?

“Vinegar, hot sauce, some food colouring to make it look interesting. Figured you wouldn’t notice the difference.”

“Don’t think I would...you know, thanks for being around. And- and everything, you know?”

“Don’t mention it,” Jack says easily. “You know I won’t.”

At which point, there’s a knock on the door. 

In one deft motion, Jack swipes the bottle and his rucksack, and dives under the bed (it’s across the room from the window, so quicker and easier to reach). Surprisingly tidy underneath, not even dust bunnies; but then, Mac hasn’t had much to do this summer. 

“Yes?” Mac calls. 

“It’s sis. Let me in, will you?”

The door creaks open, then shut again; Jack rolls his eyes as Allison cuddles her brother. Hugs seem to be her standard conversation opener, at least where her family’s concerned. 

(He’s never seen her hug Nelson Davies, so she must have some sense of taste. Or self-preservation.)

“What is it? We’re both supposed to be asleep.”

“I know- look, I don’t wanna scare you, but is Jack here yet?”

“He left,” Mac says promptly. “How long have you known about that?”

“All summer, I thought he was doing you good- I really wanted to talk to him,“ Allison says, sitting down on the bed with a sigh. “We’ve got until noon tomorrow to break up Mom and Mr Davies.”

“I don’t get it,” Mac says, sounding very confused. “Allison, they’re- I mean, Mom’s in love. And I’ve been talking to Mr Davies every day, he’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

“That’s not right,” Jack says, ducking out from under the bed. “Look. It really isn’t.”

“Thought you’d be here,” Allison says, without smiling. “Angus, you might have had more practice lately, but you’re still not any good at lying.”

“Haven’t really got the heart for it, when it’s you- look, I think you’re both wrong. I’ve had a pretty rough time of it this month, and he made me feel a lot better.”

“He probably did,” Jack agrees. “Found it easy to be nice to you, cos he liked seeing you in the dumps. That’s just how the guy is, he gets a kick out of other people being just as depressed as he is- but c’mon, you weren’t going to stay that miserable forever, were you?”

MacGyver looks at his sister and his friend, brave and anxious. Thinks about how Jesse wouldn’t have wanted him to give up on himself; they’d been better friends than that. And, in a private and deeply selfish corner, just desperately wants to get back to his workshop so he can get on with Inventing Things already.

“No. I guess I’m not.”

“Well, you’re going to be if we can’t think up a plan. C’mon,” Allison says to Jack. “Pull another rabbit out of the hat, like you did at church. Figure out some way to scare him off- and do it in a way that makes our mom just as sick of him.”

“Do you know how long I spent, working it out?” Jack says, scandalised. “You don’t come up with a good con like that in twelve hours, I’d need more time to work! Can’t you guys just tell her the truth?”

“I’m still not convinced he’s that bad a guy,” MacGyver puts in. 

“And I’ve already told mom I don’t like him. She thinks it’s out of loyalty to Dad, and because I don’t want to leave Mission City- of course I don’t want to leave Mission City! This is where we live! But we don’t have any more time- if she loses the shop, that’s it. It’s her home and livelihood and social life and everything else, wrapped up and tied with a bow. We can’t let her do that.”

“Tell you what,” MacGyver says, thoughtfully. “Just how bad did he treat you, anyway?”

Jack winces. “It was tricksy. Look- I didn’t miss that many meals, I didn’t get hit that much. But he has this rotten way of keeping you off-guard, not knowing what he’s gonna think up next, and every time you try to relax is right when he’ll drop something horrible, just to rub it in. I’ve had a better time in places where I got clipped round the ear every day, because at least I could see that coming. The only way to live with Nelson Davies is to be on your toes all the time- I tell you, I slept on this rucksack. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have taken it and set my flight jacket on fire, and told me afterwards that I’d hallucinated the whole state of Texas!”

“None of that sounds solid enough to convince Mom,” Allison says, with ruthless desperation. “She wouldn’t be inclined to believe you anyway, after the church thing- if you weren’t actually hurt, we don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Like I said, he’s tricksy. I should have just gone back to Texas in the first place,” Jack mutters. 

“Yeah, you should have,” Allison agrees. “So. For heaven’s sake, tell me how to keep my brother safe.”

“There’s...there’s…” Jack swallows, delves into his bag for a faded red kerchief. Starts to sniffle. 

“Oh my god. Are you crying?”

Angus glares at her. Gets off the bed and puts a comforting hand round his friend’s shoulder.

“I mean, Mrs Forrester knows that I was gonna pack up and go some time, when Uncle Charlie got out- but I- I don’t want to leave now.” He blows his nose copiously. “And not like this.”

(Angus is cuddling someone who isn’t family. She’s almost jealous.)

Her rising sense of guilt at upsetting this ten year-old swamps her desire to ask whether Jack's completely blithering, and she averages out a more neutral response. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”

“There’s only one thing to do. Say I want to come back and live with you guys.”

“That...that isn’t even remotely helpful.”

“Yes it is,” Jack says, a little more strongly now. “Look, you can see what a state I’m in about it, I can’t let some innocent kid go through this, when it was my fault.”

Ugh. “What are you gonna do for him, that I can’t?”

“Steal chocolate bars. Lie. Take the blame when stuff goes wrong, act the clown, cheer him up when he needs a laugh- believe me, you are going to need all the laughs you can get in his house.”

“But we went to all that effort to put you with the Forresters,” MacGyver says suddenly. “I won’t let you come, okay? No way, even if he is as bad as you say.”

“Try and stop me.”

“I’ll tell Mom,” Allison says, but bemused. Everything seems awfully topsy-turvy; she has a nightmarish impression that nothing is ever going to make sense again. 

“Tell her what, that Nelson’s adopted son wants to come home? I’m pretty sure that’ll just make her happier- it’s a lot easier to reinforce somebody’s prejudices than remove ‘em. And since I did make the cardinal carny mistake, and get involved where I shouldn’t, well,” Jack says, not making eye contact with Mac, “I guess I’ll have to live with that.”

“No, you won’t.” He’s been thinking hard for the last few minutes, seeking a way out. “Your uncle Charlie, Jack- what was his name before? When he was still a girl?”

“Charlotte. Why, does it matter?”

“It might. Mother’s sentimental.”

“She doesn’t care that he can’t marry her yet,” Allison says. “I heard them talking about it- just in terms of legal stuff, and hoo-hah like that.”

“I’ve got something else in mind,” MacGyver says, smiling now. “Cheer up, I think I can fix this.”

He walks out, without another word. But whistling. 

“Is it just me,” Jack asks, “or do you actually believe him?”

“You know, I think I do…”


	13. Chapter 13

Just the same familiar scene as ever. Swinging down the staircase to the plank floor of the cafe, shining beneath the shaded lights. 

His mother sits in the corner booth with Nelson Davies, quietly talking, and the normalcy of it hurts. He does want his mother to be happy. 

"Angus, what on earth are you doing awake at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep. Mother, I wanted to talk to you- both of you," he adds, as Mr Davies motions to rises. 

"It would have been better left until morning. Disobedience will hardly aid your sleep." 

But he does sit; Mom's taught him a thing or two herself, it seems. 

(If it was just him, maybe this would work out; but he has never, ever seen his sister this distraught, not even after the car crash. And Jack Dalton...)

"The truth shall set you free," he says, sitting down next to his mother. Watches the always-flickering anger in Nelson Davies' eyes resolve into defined hostility, along with a certain, reluctant admiration. Somebody is talking his language at last. "Have you told my mother about your wife, yet?"

"Of course he has. A hard cross to carry, losing someone he thought he knew- it's only made me love him more," Ellen MacGyver says stoutly. 

Mr Davies nods in agreement. Says nothing; awaits the next move. 

"Mother, it wasn't like that. He abandoned her."

"Now, I did no such thing," Mr Davies interjects, between breaths. "She made the decision. I divided our possessions fairly, gave her more than enough to live on. If she hasn't frittered it away, though I can't hold out much hope for that."

"It wasn't her decision, it was who she was. You loved her. She loved you back, and you threw all that away, left her when she needed you more than ever. When she wanted you more than ever, to help her come to terms with who she was."

"Stop talking in riddles," his mother says impatiently. "What's this about?"

"Jack's Uncle Charlie. His name was Charlotte, once."

"I don't understand."

"It was a morbid, blasphemous fantasy," Mr Davies confirms. "Lie upon lie upon lie. Nothing more."

(Jack, don't fail me now.) "But there'd be nothing blasphemous about it," Mac says, very softly, "if she was just your wife. You knew it wasn't. You knew she was telling the truth, that she'd been a man all along in a woman's body."

"Why, that's just sick," Ellen MacGyver says, with utter incomprehension. "You left your wife, when she was sick and needed you?"

"She was not a fragile woman," Mr Davies says (is it with a spark of long-cold passion, Mac wonders, or is he reading love into a man who never had any to give?) "I was given a ultimatum. Participate in her blasphemous fantasy, or leave, and I left- she couldn't even stick to the same lie," he says, cold and calm. "Those playbills that Jack carries, with my wife blazened across them as Juliet- of course she's still a woman!"

"I bet he didn't show those to you," Mac says, with an eye to his mother. "Jack doesn't let anybody touch his rucksack, you must have stolen them when he was sleeping."

(Mr Davies doesn't even notice the point; but he can see it's hit home. Ellen MacGyver wouldn't dream of spying on her children, or the nightly liquor sessions would never have worked.)

"And her child- even more lies! This nonsense about being his aunt- Jack's the spitting image of her, every ounce of her selfish, lying willfulness. I wish the Forresters joy of it!"

That one, Mac is positive, is just plain wrong. Jack's very wistful about the mysterious Francine who mailed him and Uncle Charlie a captain's flight jacket. To grow into, the note had said. 

"Your son," Ellen MacGyver says; and breaks the tension by knocking over her coffee cup. Cream-brown liquid rolls slowly over the table. 

"Not my son. Another man's."

"Your son," Ellen repeats, mopping away with napkins. "Your wife's child. You're that ready to abandon him?"

"Under the circumstances? He hates me- what more would you have me do?"

"I shouldn't need to tell you that! It ought to be in your heart and soul already- kidnap him, bribe them, anything!" she says, waving the damp mass in the air with no regard for decorum. Mac ducks a flying drop of coffee. "Do you think I'd have let Angus spend every waking moment with Jack for the last month, if I hadn't known how soon they'd be siblings? Our whole Wisconsin plan, to leave this town for somewhere we could look after our three children- didn't you understand any of it?"

"I never said anything of the sort," Mr Davies says, with baffled anger. Mac almost feels sorry for him. His mom's logic makes sense to him, but he's had a lot of practice in untangling it. 

"I can't marry you," Ellen says flatly. "A woman who thinks she's a man, I don't know that I understand that in the least. But I know this. I have two children, who I'd do anything for, and I will never, ever abandon them to anybody who wouldn't fight for them just as hard, and long, and- viciously, as I would. As I am," she finishes, and pointedly hugs Mac.

For the first time since coming downstairs, he feels safe again. 

"That's-"

"No."

"I-"

"No."

"You'll feel differently, when-"

"Absolutely not."

"Then there's an end to it," Mr Davies says, and picks up his hat. He is an extremely practical man, Mac thinks. "I will ask one thing, before I leave."

"Oh, go on then," Ellen says, with the twang of an impatient waitress in her tone.  

"The prayer sessions I've had with Angus- I've found myself searching for guidance as he has, found comfort by watching the innocence of a child finding the divine. I should very much like to experience that one more time, before I leave Mission City for good."

Her face softens. "Of course. Angus, go with him."

That...that is not something he wants to do. It's been a confused and terrifying and ecstatic night, and he's very much aware it's past his bedtime. And now he's feeling better again finally, the idea of another guilt-ridden, sob-ridden session sounds more than a bit horrible.

But his mom's asked him to do something, so he'll do it. "Okay."

Even pushes his tired body into action, so he can make it up the stairs with enough time to warn the others. Hopefully they'll have been smart enough to have left, or hidden-

they have, he sees in relief. Nobody in his room, nobody under the bed. Allison's probably waiting in her room. 

(He'll go tell her afterwards that it's all right, even if he falls asleep mid-sentence.)

"Give me your key," Mr Davies says, shutting the door. 

He relinquishes it, looks on in confusion as the adult locks them in. This is new, this is different. 

This is not right, some instinct whispers; and just like that, the exhaustion switches off and a sudden guarded watchfulness kicks in. It's an unsafe situation, and he'd better be ready for anything. 

Mr Davies pulls him over to the window, kneels down on the carpet a foot away. Starts to murmur prayers- that bit's all the same as normal. Mac starts double-thinking, repeating the familiar patterns obediently while his mind's racing. Key went into the trousers pocket, left side- he's on the right, no chance of getting round. Too big to fight, not without a weapon or something- he's got stuff in his room that would serve but not within arm's reach. Can't do anything until there's a provocation, and by then it might be too late. 

Course, there's always the window, but at the thought of that drop his new-found mindfulness seems to desert him. Maybe he's just being overtired and silly.

It's getting harder not to think about what he's saying. Begging forgiveness, confessing his iniquity. He comforts himself with thoughts of his sister's warm hugs, Jack's grinning fun. 

"We are both sorry for what we've done, are we not?" Mr Davies utters. 

"Yes," he says. Automatically, but very convincingly. 

"Sinners of such hard hearts, that we shall never find hope again- I know that, now. You knew it when you killed your friend."

There is a rather long moment during which, if Mr Davies had brought out a gun and shot him, Mac wouldn't have done a thing to stop him. 

But everything is so topsy-turvy now: he finds himself clinging to the thought of those liquor indulgences, like a guiding gyroscope- of course they were sinful, wrong, but they tell him which way's up. That if it's that way or this, long nights of anguished woe, he knows what direction he wants to be going-

A sudden scuffle in the corridor, pounding on the door. "Lemme in! Mac!"

That's Allison screaming. He jumps up, runs to the door unthinkingly. 

"Allison, stop it! You're being hysterical!"

That'd be mom. He's about to call out and says his sister's right, when instinct stops him. Allison's determined; she'll get this door down whatever it takes. If he can give her enough time to come rescue him. 

Which will probably be less time if he shouts for help, because Mr Davies over there is insane and it'll probably set him off. 

Mac moves back to the window. Settles down into the accustomed spot. 

"Not a martyr's death, that's too good for us," Mr Davies says, as though without a break. "A sinner's. The death of Jezebel, that should suit the purpose."

"I'm afraid."

"Of course. But you understand, don't you? How we both must make our redemption in death, since there will be none for us in life?"

Unbidden, a sentence floats across his mind, Jack at his most sarcastic. " _Geez, can you believe this guy?_ "

"Yes. Only," he adds, quickly, "before we do...will you tell me the verses? I've read them, of course...but just so I can hear them one last time?"

To a rather honest, genuine smile on Mr Davies' face. Just somebody with a hobby that absolutely nobody can be bothered with, being asked to show off at last. 

"Of course," Mr Davies says.  "And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face, and tired her head, and looked out at a window..."

Damn damn damn, why'd he have to start there? Doesn't give him much time. His sister's stopped pounding on the door; how long is it going to take her to come up with something?

"...who is on my side?"

Maybe he'd better go back to the weapons plan. There's a hockey stick in the corner. 

Wait, no. Maybe there's a better idea. 

"'but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands.' And there we are, then," Mr Davies concludes. 

Very to the point, him.

"I'll go first," Mac says, and jumps onto the windowsill. Twists himself round and slams the window, holding it tightly shut. 

He's looking at a brick and mortar wall. Just bricks, and mortar, and if he doesn't move an inch he doesn't have to think about the drop behind him- 

"Help!"

there's a shattering of glass beneath him. Apparently Mr Davies has found his hockey stick. 

"Angus!"

That's Allison; she must have run all the way down to the backyard. Too late. 

"Let not your heart be troubled."

The Badger sounds almost contented about it. Knocks him off the ledge, and jumps out in a long, surprisingly elegant arc. Just the climatic ending he must have dreamed of. 

Mac's own drop is straight down and undignified and isn't much to look at, asethetically, but it has one tremendous advantage; it stops about a foot underneath the window. 

Cos he's caught hold of a lifeline. Jack Dalton's rope. 

"Actually," he says aloud (this is going to make such a story at school, and he wants to get the quip right). "Heights aren't nearly as bad as I'd thought."

Not when he has the security of his own sure handiwork to trust in. He slips down it until he's nicely settled on one of the knots, considers whether he's feeling capable of going either up or down, and decides he actually can't. 

"I'm climbing up to get you!"

"Never mind about me! Somebody better call an ambulance for the Badger!"

"You go do that, Allison. Angus, where's the key?"

"I think it's still in his pocket!"

"Now, you just hold on tight," his mother calls briskly. "I'll be up in a minute."

He watches her calmly retrieve the key from the man's pocket, and walk away without a second glance. Waits patiently, enjoying the night's breeze. 

And then his mom's pulling him up and he's safely back in his bedroom on the nice solid carpet, and he's too happy for words. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers, over and over again. He wants to reassure her. 

But it really is way past his bedtime, and before Mac can say it he just goes straight to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

"I can't believe you managed to sleep through that whole thing," Allison says to Jack. "My brother screaming, and me screaming, and the ambulance and the police officers coming- all that commotion."

She sits down on her bed, next to the solidly snoring youngster. It's so late that it's come round again to early. 

"Everything's worked out. They took Nelson Davies away, somewhere that he'll be looked after. My mom's had a good lesson about not handing over her life to just any guy who comes along and orders her how to run it- and I hope she has better luck next time. She'll sure have a few good stories to share for the cafe. And I think Angus is going to be just fine when school starts. Showing off and being around other kids again, and maybe punching a couple bullies for you along the way. Trust me, he's very loyal. Way more than you deserve."

Jack's unresponsive, naturally. 

"You almost got my brother killed, you dope. Try to be more careful next time, huh?"

She shakes the kid awake. He yelps. 

"Hey. You gotta go home."

"'m nice and comfy."

"Ruth's gonna miss you."

Jack jumps up, grabbing for his rucksack. "How late is it?"

"Five o'clock. You'll make it."

He grins. "Thanks. Not squealing on us for anything."

Surprisingly charming when he's awake, and after her family's nigh-miraculous escape, she doesn't have the heart to be really mad at anybody. "No problem. Go on, get out of here. See you at school tomorrow."

"I really would have stuck around, you know," he adds, putting his hand on the doorknob. "If he'd needed me, I'd have been there for him."

Someday, when her brother's grown up, she and her mom won't be enough any more and there'll be other people saying this to Angus. Maybe Jack will even be one of them, who knows. 

Not just yet, though. "Thanks, but that's what his family's for."

"Families can be weird things," Jack says. "Just ask my mom."

It's an interesting exit line, and under other circumstances she might chase him down again and ask for emotional details (the biological underpinnings for anything so ephemeral as feelings fascinate her)- but it's late. Or early. She goes to sleep instead. 

A few minutes later, Ellen comes along and tucks her daughter up, quite unaware that Jack's been around at all. 

(After all. With Angus MacGyver for a son, the oddly strategic placement of a useful rope doesn't even occur to her.)

*********

"So how was everyone's summer?" Mac asks, during recess. "Can't believe I missed half of it."

"Oh, nice and quiet," Ellen says. "You know. Nothing ever happens in Mission City, that's why I like it."

"Are you kidding?" Roxy Yates says. "That whole thing in the church this summer, did you forget about it already?"

"No..."

"Well, then. Hiiiiii, Jack," Roxy screeches, as she sits down next to Mac. 

"Hiiiiii," he promptly mimics her, equally as annoying. "Say, you wouldn't believe what happened to Mac yesterday, it was nuts!"

"It was," Mac says, sheepish but also rather proud. "I got thrown out a window by his uncle Nelson. Coulda fallen a whole three stories..."

Ellen looks at Carla, during the epic recounting of the narrative (Carla is her best friend, quiet and subdued- or at least, compared to her twin she is). 

"Do you believe any of this?" she whispers. 

"No. But isn't it fun?"

Fun isn't the word she'd have thought of. 

But wow. If it's even half-true, Angus MacGyver must be awfully brave....

*********

They've put him in an empty room, with padded walls. Neat and orderly. 

A Bible is provided, when he asks for one. A proper King James edition.

They think they've imprisoned him; but really, he has everything he needs right here. 

Quiet. 

Very peaceful. 

Good.

*********

_My dear nephew,_

_I regret to have to tell you this, but- your dear uncle is a coward._

_A coward, because instead of writing you to say I was coming north, I travelled incognito. Watched you from a distance, talked to some of the Missionaries, and made up my mind not to take you back to Texas with me._ _Not even if you offend that most excellent Ruth into expelling you from her house, so don't do that._

_As I've said before: some artists run cons for the sake of the money, some do it for the adventure, and most, myself included, do it for both. The first doesn't apply to you; you've successfully fast-talked your way into a position secure enough for any child (I am very proud of the way you conducted this solstice sermon). As for the second- it's more important than you realise, at present, to learn everything you can just now. You can't keep up the life very successfully, if you don't know enough about the world to comprehend when it's trying to con you back. (Remember: I had a fine education at home, and years of reading on the sly, before I took to the road.) You'll be in a far better position to appreciate the adventure after a few years off._

_I know. I should be telling you these words._

_But as I said, I am a coward. I don't trust that I could stop myself, scooping you up onto my motorcycle handlebars and driving off into the sunset- only to leave you alone and abandoned again, the next time one of my little dodges goes awry. Jack, I love you devotedly. Enough to leave you with people who'll raise you better than I will._

_I'll look you up, after high school. Don't worry about making valedictorian, but I will expect to see a diploma._

_And then- why, we'lll see, won't we?_

_Kiss your mother for me, and give this town something to talk about for the next few years. I expect it could do with some livening up._

_Your fond, foolish Uncle Charlie_

"He told you who he was, but not me?" Jack says, utterly miserable. Mac shrugs, helplessly. 

"I guessed. He was wearing a veil, but when he was handing me the letter, the wind blew it aside and I got a good look at her- him. Him."

(Mac is not mentioning that even pushing forty, Charlie Dalton can contrive to disguise himself as a marvellously pretty woman. Tantalising and charming and giving him just the queerest feeling, when he was being studied by too-familiar eyes. If Jack had been a girl...)

"He did the right thing," Ruth says, rocking her chair back and forth as she holds her son. "And I'm grateful beyond measure for it- it's a pity he didn't stay. I'd have liked to invite him to tea."

"I thought I could trust him. I'll never trust anybody, ever again-"

"Jack," Mac says. "You spent a whole Sunday afternoon last month, talking my ear off about all the things you were going to miss when you left. Having somewhere to sleep every night, and an allowance you can use to buy fun stuff instead of breakfast, and shop class. An aunt who lets you taste-test, whenever she's whipping up a new batch- "

"Well, it isn't just about me. Did you ever stop to think that I'm all that Uncle Charlie has left? And- and I've written him these letters being selfish and making it sound like I didn't want to go, so it's my fault!"

"Did you want to go?" Ruth asks, worriedly. 

"...not really? But I should have been."

There's a crunch, of the front door opening. Gruff male voices in the next room, the stamping of snow off heavy boots. 

Jack's eyes widen. "Uncle Charlie!"

Ruth squeaks, as he throws himself forward and out with no regard for the effect of the motion on the rocker. 

"I told David to go down to the depot, quick, and maybe it'd work out," Mac says with a smile. "Didn't want to mention, in case he didn't make it. I guess we're lucky that the bus goes so slow."

"Yes, that's very inconvenient- or convenient, this time," Ruth muses. "Really, we need a taxi service or something in this town..."

"I read the whole letter," Jack's saying, as he and David come back in the winter room. Along with Uncle Charlie. "And I was about to get really mad at you for ditching me, but my mother was telling me not to- isn't she lovely?" 

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure," Uncle Charlie says, removing his cowboy hat. 

Mac finds he's staring. The man's gruff, with a hint of five o'clock shadow, and dressed in old working clothes that have obviously seen better days. Nothing to suggest the woman who'd handed him her missive. Not until he notices Mac looking at him, and winks at him just the same way. 

"Of course you're staying to suppper," Ruth says, not leaving the slightest room for doubt. "We'll have so much to talk about, I'm sure."

"Just how much has Jack mentioned about me, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh- that you're a hardened criminal who's been in and out of more jails than I've had hot dinners, and can sweet-talk the birds off the trees. All that sort of thing."

"Then I'd say he's been more than usually honest, for once in a way," Charlie says in amusement. 

"That's considerably more than he's told me," David says, looking rather startled. 

"You didn't ask," Jack says. "I'd have said so if you'd asked."

"Guess I'd better be going home," Mac says. "Leave you all to it."

"I'd rather you didn't," Jack says, grabbing his arm. "Uncle Charlie, this is my best friend. His name's MacGyver."

"Just the one, eh? Lots to be said for brevity."

Ruth snorts. "I see that sense of humour runs in the family- Jack, let him go. He'll have to go home and tell his mother he won't be back for dinner, to say nothing of finding out where your sister's got to this time-"

"Oh, she's by the creek," Jack says. "Trying to ice-fish."

"Sounds like a proper young hellcat- begging your pardon." 

"No, no, that's a fair description of Mike," David agrees. "Ruth, I hope you've baked enough pastrami for everyone."

"David Forrester, have you ever known me not to?"

*********

A bright, cheerful dinner, with considerable laughter. Stories by the fire afterwards, as Uncle Charlie allows himself to be coaxed into telling one mad tale after another for hours on end. Everybody listens in fascination. 

"I do declare," he says, long after midnight. "Those children have fallen right asleep."

"So they have...well, it won't hurt them for once in a way," Ruth says, slipping a pillow under her daughter's head (the three of them, curled up by the fireplace, have rumpled the blankets into an utter maze; she lays them out flat again). "I admit, I was that distracted listening to you. No wonder Jack wanted to leave."

"I'll take him off your hands if you like," he offers. "If you've any reason to think you don't want him." 

"The only reason I would give him up," Ruth says, "is if you told me you were going to settle down and live a nice respectable existence. I guess I love him too much. I can't stand the thought of Jack begging and scrounging and spending his whole childhood tired to death, instead of growing up somewhere he can flourish. More than enough time for him to go back to that life later, if he fancies- but not for a chid."

"And as living a nice respectable existence is just about the last thing I was meant to do with my life," Charlie says, "I suppose you'll keep him?"

Such a funny blend of regret and relief in his voice, Ruth thinks. "I promise you. I'd look after that boy with my last breath."

He exhales, slowly. "Then I've had better luck than I deserved. I shouldn't ever have left him for the tender mercies of Nelson Davies- though it wasn't quite voluntary on my part, you'll understand. I am no end grateful to you, ma'am."

"Oh, call me Ruth."

"Ruth," he repeats. Like a prayer. 

In a light, almost feminine tone. A sweet invocation that tingles right into her bones, in a way that nothing that her sensible, practical Missionary has ever said to her has. 

She glances at her husband, who'd dozed off even before the children had. David sleeps just as hard as his son. 

"You'll be leaving in the morning, I take it," she says, rather weakly. 

"Business to be getting on with. Propositions..."

They're about the same height; in fact, Charlie's even an inch or two shorter. So when his hand comes up (those strong fingers, small but toughened by all his years of adventures)- when his hand comes up, cups her chin appreciatively, for once she's looking straight ahead at a man instead of up. 

"And I'm not the best influence, you'll understand." 

"Oh- oh, I'm sure you're not..."

*********

"Do you have to leave already?" Jack asks, through a mouthful of breakfast. (Weekend bacon and eggs had been another item on his list of leaving-behind regrets.)

"Afraid so, Jack. Road's calling."

"I was gonna ask about that," Mike says, waving his letter in the air. "There's a motorcycle? I wanna see this motorcycle!"

Charlie chuckles. "Back in Texas, I'm afraid. Hock, in fact."

"Where's that?"

"Oh, about the place." His nephew's looking at him, cock-eyed. "What is it?"

"I'm thinking you'd better have this," Jack says, diving under the table. He comes back into sight with the ever-present rucksack. "I know you could use it, you said so yourself once."

It's true. Sturdy, good for a few more years on the road. 

"Because I don't think I'll be needing it- I'll just empty it out after breakfast."

"I'll help," MacGyver offers. Good solid kid, if a little earnest. "Be neat to see what kind of stuff you've been hiding in there all this time."

"Ditto," Mike says. 

"Sure, sounds great."

The last of Charlie's doubts vanish; if Jack's willing to give up that beloved piece of gear, he really is ready to settle. Mission City seems as good a place as any, for now. If he knows his nephew, he'll be wanting to leave eventually- but not just yet.

"You going to leave in the lining?" he asks dryly. A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, and he would like his motorcycle back. (Pawned, to pay for a trip North.)

"If you promise," Jack says, "to come back and see me every year. Not holidays or anything, just some time. Any time business is slow, you know...that way I'll know you're okay."

"You drive a hard bargain," Charlie comments. "Done."

"Mom, you've knocked your glass over," Mike points out.

"Why, so I have! I'll just get a dishcloth."

"Well, we'll be glad to have you," David says heartily, as his wife scampers off. "Now- what was it you were saying yesterday, about those mining shares? I could take a few thousand out of the bank-"

Oh, this won't do. "David, I have to admit- I was putting you on. There's no mine."

"But- the certificates?"

"Printed 'em up myself."

"The lost prospector?"

"Made the story up out of whole cloth."

"The phone call from the New York brokerage?"

"You never heard what was at the other end of the line, did you? I just made my half of it sound right."

"That does beat all," David says, in amazement. "You were so convincing..."

"Uncle Charlie," Jack says, with a faintly (adorably) proprietorial tone. "No scamming anybody in the family, got that? And that goes for Mac's mom, too."

"Why would he want to scam my mom?" Mac asks, puzzled. 

"Oh," Jack says, shrugging. "Emotional widow with her own business- gosh, there's no knowing what kinda mischief he might get up to."

"It's only a coffee shop."

"I remember the last coffee shop I conned," Charlie drawls. "Real sweetheart of an owner. She believed every word of my story- can't even remember the details, something about a tax scam or a government reclassification or something. If I hadn't felt so plumb sorry for her and pulled out last second, she'd have signed the whole thing over to me no questions asked."

Mac frowns. "I'm not even letting you meet my mom."

"Good move."

This annual visit thing- it's a bind, the kind he hates, but not much of a one. It'll be good to see how his nephew is getting on. Shake him up, if he starts getting too contented. 

To say nothing of delectable Ruth Forrester...


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over in Domestic Adventures, I wrote a ficlet in which MacGyver turns out to be lethally incapable of barbecuing anything competently. 
> 
> In keeping with my yen for occasional chronological disorder, I wrote a framing epilogue that only makes sense when read after "Pancake Day". It's occurred to me that I perhaps ought to reorder this series in an order besides the strictly chronological, but I'm honestly not sure either way.

_Texas, 1992._

"Hang on," Becky says, wrinkling her nose. "So- so Ruth and your Uncle Charlie..." 

"Well, of course I don't know for sure," Jack says, shrugging. "But- I did catch them in some funny positions sometimes. And she still wears the pyrite necklace he gave her- fool's gold, you know?"

"The question I want answered," Murdoc says casually, "is how much of that you're expecting us to believe. And don't say 'all of it', or I shall conclude you made up the entire tale out of whole cloth."

"No, that was more or less right," MacGyver calls over. (He is preoccupied with the barbecue grill, which he's manhandling in his usual disastrous fashion, so they're all staying well back.) "I mean, Mike and I didn't actually beat him to a jelly. I was careful about that."

"You were careful. Mike wasn't," Jack says in disgust. "Wonder how she's getting on, these days. I wish she'd try harder to stay in touch."

"Funny how she followed more in Charlie's footsteps than either of us, huh? Globetrotting long before we got out of Minnesota."

"And my mom," Becky says thoughtfully. "Trying so hard to keep the shop for the family- that's very ironic. She always told me she never liked it much."

"The slightly pathetic part of all this," MacGyver says, "is that if Nelson Davies had gone ahead and married her, we'd probably have had enough money for me to go to college. I mean, not that I exactly regretted it..."

"You would never have been around to get the money," Jack says, rolling his eyes. "Cos the first time he gave you a decent whipping, I'd have gotten you out of there whether you wanted it or not."

"Without Mom? Or Allison?"

"Allison, yeah, if she'd wanted to come. Not your mom. Sorry, but if she'd been stupid enough to tie the knot with anybody that crazy, I wouldn't have wasted my time rescuing her."

"I don't think I could have left her. Probably would have been stupid enough to have stuck around, like I did with Ellen."

"Whether you wanted it or not. Ellen was you being a dumb adult, but kids are different. I'da looked after you."

"Second question," Murdoc says. "Why is Becky only hearing this for the first time?"

"Oh, I knew a lot of it. Just not all together like this- what happened to the rucksack? I think I'd like to see it."

"As far as I know, he still has it. Patched together so many times that there's none of the original cloth left. Which brings us to the point," Jack says impishly. "Cos I got a letter yesterday, saying that he was in stir again. And I said to myself, huh, there's these two troubleshooters I know..."

"Is that what this is about?" MacGyver demands. "I shoulda known that you didn't actually want a steak."

"Mac- look, sorry, but you have never, once, delivered an edible steak however often you've tried!"

"Yeah? Get outside of this," he says, slapping a hot slab of meat onto Jack's plate. 

Jack, resigned, starts cutting it up. "Well, fat lot of good he is. What about you, Murdoc?"

"Oh, I don't know. Why not ask the budding DXS star over here?"

"Because there's no reasonable legal, moral, or ethical pretext for springing Uncle Charlie," Jack says succinctly. "Guilty as the canary-eating cat, he is."

"Then...well, I suppose I can take some time out of my schedule for this."

"Technically speaking," Becky says, "I ought to do something, if I'm hearing about a crime being plotted in my presense."

"Becky, you're gonna have to be more discreet than that if you want to be any kind of spy at all," MacGyver says, putting another steak on her plate. "Well, Jack? How is it?"

"I don't believe it," Jack mutters. "I mean- this steak's amazing."

"Best you've ever had?"

"Not even close. But I mean, this is tolerable! Even tasty!"

MacGyver beams. 

"I will continue with my sushi, thank you very much," Murdoc says.

"I thought you might. That's why I didn't make you one."

"Very perceptive."

"Of course, there's one thing about Ruth's child-rearing that my mom would have commented on," Becky says. "She always said it was important not to make foster kids ask permission before they could eat, because it tended to reinforce pre-existing psychic traumas and damage their sense of security."

"I was talking about the cookie jar- Becky, would you have given ten year old me unfettered access to a cookie jar? I wouldn't."

"...okay, maybe not. And one more thing. What's a diddle?"

"A con. A scam. A fraud, a trick, a racket- you get the picture."

"Huh. I don't think I believe you."

"Whaddya mean? Of course it's- ah," Jack says, after a moment. 

Becky snickers.

"You're a bad influence on her, clearly," Murdoc pronounces. 

"Me? What? You want to talk about bad influences-" 

"And here we go again," MacGyver comments to his niece, as the two start in on each other. "They were doing so well."

"Let 'em blow off some steam," Becky says. "This actually is a nice steak, Unc."

"I bought them at the barbecue place down the road," he whispers. "He's halfway through and still hasn't caught on."

"One of these days, you're bound to do it properly," his niece says. "If only by accident."

"One of these days," he agrees. Now that they're safely home, now that they have all the time and peace in the world. 

"Keep that up," Murdoc shouts, "and you might find that I'm rescinding that offer to rescue your much beloved Charlie!"

"Then maybe I'll go n' rescue him myself! How do you like them apples!"

"...what. What does that even mean, seriously?"

Well. 

Mostly peaceful, anyway...


End file.
